


Drink to Me Only With Thine Eyes

by Kirathaune



Category: Saiyuki
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, M/M, Vineyard, Winery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-06
Updated: 2017-09-06
Packaged: 2018-12-24 11:48:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 22
Words: 44,896
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12012084
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kirathaune/pseuds/Kirathaune
Summary: Koren van Sant receives an unusual inheritance—a vineyard—from an old friend. But there are strings attached, and Koren’s hectic life is turned upside down when he has to trade deadlines, last-minute changes, and demanding clients for winding rows of grapevines, spotty Internet, and a young vintner named Gordon who seems determined to show Koren that life in the slow lane isn’t so bad after all.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the 2017 Saiyuki Bang! Challenge
> 
> Thanks to my beta-BFF Charliesmum, and to [Thooluu](http://thooluu.tumblr.com) for the amazing art she created to accompany this story. Also, many thanks to the FYeahSaiyuki mods on Tumblr for organizing the Bang - I was so happy to be able to participate!

_Drink to me only with thine eyes,_  
_And I will pledge with mine;_  
_Or leave a kiss but in the cup,_  
_And I’ll not look for wine._  
_\--Ben Jonson, 1616_

 

“I inherited _what?”_ Koren Van Sant’s feet slipped off his desk, landing on his office’s carpet with a heavy thud. He pressed his cell phone closer to his ear.

“A winery,” his lawyer replied, and her voice grew muffled as she shuffled some papers on the other end of the line. “River’s Flow Vineyard and Winery, in Chadds Ford, Pennsylvania. You received this bequest from—”

“Corbin Sanderson,” Koren said, and he briefly squeezed his eyes shut against the grief that threatened to resurface at the mention of his friend’s name. “He passed away a month ago, I flew back to Philly to go to the funeral. ‘River’s Flow’ was the name of his farm… but I don’t remember him having enough grapevines to have a winery. How did I inherit it? Corbin and I weren’t related.”

When he was younger, he’d wished he _had_ been related to the crazy old man, but life didn’t work that way.

His lawyer sighed. “You inherited it because Mr. Sanderson put your name down in his will and said, ‘I want Koren to have my winery, and I want him to give all its lovely wine to his hard-working, long-suffering lawyer.’”

Koren ignored the second part. “No family?” He couldn’t remember Corbin having any family, but that didn’t mean there wasn’t a cousin or something out there.

“Nope. There are some bequests to employees, a few other friends, and a couple of charities, but you get the majority of the estate.”

Koren swiveled his chair away from his desk to stare out the window at the Chicago River, and as his lawyer droned on he watched the snarl of rush-hour traffic light up the bridges with hundreds of blinking red brake lights. Not for the first time, he was grateful that he didn’t have to drive to work.

“Koren? Are you listening?”

His attention snapped back to the phone. “Sorry, Sharon, I wasn’t.”

“There’s two stipulations,” she said.

“Stipulations?”

“Yes, conditions for you to receive your inheritance and take ownership of the property.”

Koren rolled his eyes. That sounded like something Corbin would do. “So what are the stipulations? If one of them is to stop smoking the answer’s no.” He pulled the phone away from his ear at the cackle that burst tinnily from the speaker.

“You wouldn’t last a day,” she said. “No, the first stipulation is that you have to live on the property for at least six weeks, and the second is that you must complete at least one painting per week during your stay.”

“What the hell?” Koren frowned; it was precisely the kind of nonsense the old man would pull. But he had no clue as to _why_ Corbin would set such ridiculous conditions. “I have to live there? For a month and a half? How the hell am I supposed to do that? I have a job. Here. In Chicago.”

“Koren, it’s not my job to tell you how to make it work. It’s my job to tell you that this crazy old man you were friends with left you a lot of land that has grapes growing on it. And from the bit of googling I did before I called you, the winery apparently makes some pretty damn good, award-winning wine with all those grapes. If you don’t want to keep it, sell it and make a crap-ton of money. In my professional opinion, I think that you should find a way to get your ass over there and go paint some pretty pictures. I didn’t know you painted.”

“I did while I was in high school,” Koren replied, “but I pretty much stopped after I went to college.”

“Why? Didn’t you like it?”

 _The opposite, actually,_ Koren thought as his gaze returned to the window, this time to watch the sun slip below the city skyline. He’d loved painting, as well as the time he’d spent at Corbin’s farm, standing knee-high in field grass and capturing everything he could see on canvas. “It wasn’t the same when I wasn’t there,” he said, more to himself than to his lawyer.

“All the more reason to go,” she said. “I’m sure you can figure a way to use some vacation time, work remotely, whatever. I’m sending you an email with a couple things; you’ll need to meet with the executor, Morris Touden—”

“Toad,” Koren murmured.

“Pardon?”

“Sorry,” he said. “Corbin called him Toad, among other things.”

“From _The Wind in the Willows?"_

“No,” Koren replied, “ _Frog and Toad Are Friends._ Corbin was Frog, and Morris was Toad. Why didn’t Morris get the winery? He’s Corbin’s best friend.” _Was,_ he reminded himself.

Papers shuffled on the other end of the line. “You’ll have to ask him that, but it looks like he inherited Mr. Sanderson’s portion of a gallery they jointly owned in Chadds Ford, and a vacation house in the Poconos. His office is in Kennett Square, my email will have the address and such. I’m also giving you contact info for the winery’s manager so you can let him know when you’re arriving. Sending it…now.”

Koren’s computer pinged, and he saw the email appear in his inbox. “Got it,” he said, and then he flagged it so that he wouldn’t lose it in the sea of late afternoon approvals and revisions.

“Excellent. I’ll overnight you a copy of the will and the other documents that Mr. Touden sent me. You’ll let me know when you’re going to go?”

“Yeah,” Koren said, “and I guess I’ll have to go visit Herself while I’m there. She’ll get pissed if she found out I was less than half an hour away and didn’t go see her.”

“You’ll survive,” she said, “and you should go.”

“Are you going to tell her about all this?”

“No, that’s on you, babe. I may be the family attorney, but this is your business, not hers. She’ll probably find out anyway, you know how she is.”

Koren snorted. “Yeah, you’re probably right. Hopefully she’ll let me make up my own mind about keeping the place.”

“Good luck with that. Bring me back some wine!”

Koren ended the call, and returned to watching the sky darken to a bewitching cobalt blue.

Corbin had given him the farm. _Winery and vineyard,_ Koren corrected himself. But to him the land was the old Chester County ‘gentleman’s farm’ that been the closest thing to home he’d ever known, a place he’d much preferred over his aunt’s Philadelphia mansion. Back then the ‘vineyard’ was a few rows of vines that Corbin got maybe a dozen bottles of wine from.

Riesling, he recalled. He’d always thought it strange that a German wine grew so well in Pennsylvania, but it had tasted pretty damn good.

He glanced over at the conference table that held stacks of printed samples from his latest creative campaign. It was the perfect time to take a few weeks off, he realized; the redesign project for the Four Aces Casinos was finally complete, and any tweaks that might be needed could be handled by his staff. He had plenty of unused vacation time, too—and he could always remote in when needed. He reached for the phone on his desk and punched in his boss’ extension.


	2. Chapter 2

“I look forward to meeting you, Mr. Van Sant, and thank you for the call.” Henry Chough put the cordless phone back in its charging dock and regarded it for a moment.

“Was that him, Henry? The guy who inherited River’s Flow from Corbin?” Gordon Sonnier set a rack of clean wineglasses on the tasting bar’s counter, and he began removing them from the rack, flipping them over to set them upright on the gleaming wood.

Henry nodded. “Yes. Koren Van Sant. He’s flying in to Philadelphia next Sunday, and will be here on the following Monday.” While Gordon continued to unpack the dishwasher rack, Henry began stowing the glasses away on the rows of shelves beneath the counter. One of the glasses had a spot on it, and he reached for a dishtowel to clean it. A pang of melancholy bloomed in his chest when the cloth ran across the double wave logo that was etched into the glass.

“Is he gonna need one of us to pick him up?” Gordon’s voice faded as he took the empty rack into the kitchen, and then he came back in with a second rack of clean glasses. “I can go get him.”

“No, he said he’ll have a car.”

“Did you ask him about hiring someone to run the tasting room?” Gordon winced at the jangling clatter that resulted when he put some glasses down too close to each other. 

“Careful, Gordon, you don’t want to chip them,” Henry said, and he quickly moved to separate the glasses. “Yes, I asked, and I guess ‘I don’t care, do what you want’ can be considered approval to hire someone.”

Gordon made a face. “He needs to care. We really need the help—Corbin used to do all this stuff, I’m used to only helping in here on the weekends. I’m only halfway done my final trim on the vines, and if I don’t get them done soon it could affect the grapes.”

“We’re not in danger of rot, are we?” Henry couldn’t bear the thought of losing both Corbin _and_ the harvest.

“No!” Gordon waved his hands. “No, it would just affect the sugars.”

“You did the Chardonnay and Riesling first, right?”

“I’m following your list, Henry.” Gordon’s tone flattened, “and I know how to take care of the vines.”

“Of course you do,” Henry assured him. “I’m sorry that I implied otherwise.” Gordon was the finest viticulturist Henry had encountered in the several wineries he had worked for, and he reminded himself yet again that Gordon’s youth and lack of formal education in no way diminished his skill in the vineyard. “I feel a bit… adrift without Corbin here.”

Gordon’s expression immediately softened to one of infinite sadness. “Yeah, me too,” he said softly. “I hope the new guy decides to keep the place.”

“Do you know him at all, Gordon?” Henry began to put the second rack of glasses away.

“Not really,” Gordon replied. “If he’s who I think he is, I used to see him during the summer, when I worked the farm stand with my grandpop on the weekends. We never really talked much, though. ”

“Well,” Henry said, “at least you’ll be somewhat of a familiar face. Mr. Van Sant didn’t even know that there was a winery, so I’m sure River’s Flow is going to be very different from what he knew.”

Gordon smiled. “Not so different,” he said. “The house is the same, and the barns and stables are still here. It’s just that the main barn is the tasting room now, and we use the stables and other barns for the winery—and I live in the old spring house. Also, the fields have grapevines now instead of field grass and wildflowers. But I think the parts he knew best are the same.”

Henry put the last of the glasses away, and then the two men regarded the high-ceilinged space before them. “At least he’ll have a few days to acclimate before the tasting room opens on Thursday,” he said. Plus, he and Gordon would have a few days to acclimate to the winery’s potential new owner.

Gordon frowned. “We need to find somebody soon to work in here—you and I can’t handle weekends alone for much longer. Today was really busy for a Sunday, and as the weather gets cooler more people are going to come here. And I mean real soon, Henry, because it’s getting close to harvest on some of these grapes. I think we’ll be harvesting the Riesling and maybe the Cab Franc before this guy’s six weeks are up. If that happens I won’t be able to be here much at all, and neither will you.”

Henry didn’t doubt Gordon’s prediction in the least. “I know. I’ve posted on several of the hiring sites, but honestly, I just haven’t been very happy with the candidates I’ve seen so far.” The tasting room was a vital source of sales, and having the right mix of knowledge and personality was crucial. Corbin had always been against having ‘wine snobs’ in the room; he’d always worried that they would intimidate the customers, most of whom didn’t know anything about the wine except that it tasted good. Unfortunately, the last crop of interviews had yielded nothing but people who expressed thinly-veiled contempt for the uninformed wine drinker.

He used to be one of them, he freely admitted to himself. That is, until Corbin had shown him how to gently teach others about the grapes, and the wine. Gordon, too, had been a tremendous influence on him—growing up on a fruit farm, to Gordon the grapes were just another fruit, and while he’d learned a lot about the winemaking side of things in the past few years, he still looked at things with a farmer’s eyes, instead of a viticulturist’s. Henry secretly held the opinion that Gordon’s skill with fruit was why River’s Flow wines were so good.

“I’ll pull together another round of interviews to have this week,” he promised Gordon. “I may have to just hire someone, and hope they work out.”

Gordon nodded. “Better than no one at all,” he said. “How are we on snackies and stuff? I did a _lot_ of cheese plates this weekend—and I think I used up the last of the olives today.”

They went to the kitchen together and took stock.

“Oh dear,” Henry said, “I definitely need to get more of almost everything! Most of the shops in town will be closed tomorrow, but I’ll email Janice and let her know what I need so that she can have it ready for me to pick up Tuesday.”

“Sounds good,” Gordon said. He opened another cabinet. “We’d better get more chocolate, too. I’ll take care of getting that on Tuesday or Wednesday.”

“Just make sure that enough of it survives the trip home,” Henry teased. Gordon had a notorious sweet tooth, and Henry would bet a small sum that the reason they were short on both cheese and chocolate was due to Gordon being in the tasting room more than normal.

Gordon’s blush confirmed his suspicions.

“Well, we’re all cleaned up here,” Henry said. “How about we change and go do some trimming? We have a few hours of light left. Let’s do the Vidal Blanc tonight, so we can move on the reds tomorrow.”

“Sounds good!” Gordon said, and he undid his black waiter’s apron and set it on the counter. “I’ll meet you in the Vidal rows.”

Henry watched him leave, and then he did the same with his own apron. He made a pass of the room, checking locks, and then he locked his office, shut off all the lights and closed and locked the heavy oak door of the room’s front entrance. He flipped the little grape-decorated sign to read ‘Closed.’

 _I hope I can find someone this week,_ he thought.


	3. Chapter 3

When necessity had forced Henry to take over managing the tasting room, he had viewed his weekly shopping trip as an unwelcome chore that would take him away from his work with the wine, and a task beneath his education and skill. 

Now Henry looked forward to spending Tuesday mornings in downtown Chadds Ford, and he had a very pleasant routine established. Breakfast was either tea and fresh-baked scones at The Mad Hatter, or some fresh fruit and hearty slices of artisan bread at Loafing Around while he read the paper and chatted with a few of the ‘regulars.’ He’d become a bit of a regular himself at both places; he was always greeted by name, and usually given a taste of whatever new item the bakers were trying out. After stocking up on various cheeses and smoked meats at Local Flavor, he would have a nice lunch at the little vegetarian cafe down the road, and then head back to River’s Flow. Sometimes, when it was a slow week at the winery, he would wander around some of the little shops and galleries, keeping an eye out for new artists. 

Henry found the weekly trips surprisingly rewarding; he now shopped at Local Flavor instead of just buying blocks of cheese and sticks of salami at the supermarket, and besides giving him a decent discount, the owners had invited him to run their monthly wine and cheese pairing events. Doug and Janice Sandler worked hard to stock their shelves with local-made food, and Henry felt Corbin would have approved of supporting the town’s artisans. 

This morning he opted for blueberry scones and some jasmine tea, and while he didn’t have too much time to browse the shops he managed to skim through an artist co-op and hand out a few business cards before he headed over to Local Flavor. 

The shop was busy for a Tuesday morning; Henry wondered if there was an event going on that was bringing more tourists than usual to the historic part of town. It looked like Janice and Doug had hired some help recently, because Henry definitely would have remembered seeing the tall, lanky redhead who was ringing up orders and flirting with several little old ladies while he carried out boxes for them. Henry waited patiently for the crowd at the deli counter to thin, and when the last customer left to pay for their purchases the owner turned to him and smiled. 

“Good morning, Henry!” she said. “I’m sorry you had to wait—there’s a special event at the Longwood Gardens this week, and it seems like everyone wants to stop here to get picnic goodies.”

“Good morning, Janice,” Henry replied. “Don’t worry, I wasn’t waiting long. I’m glad I emailed you my order.” He wondered if the event would mean more people at River’s Flow during the coming weekend. While that would normally be an exciting prospect, the current lack of help at the winery made Henry worry whether they could handle the extra crowds.

“I am too,” she replied. She turned toward the new employee. “Hey Joe? There’s a big box on the table in the back, with an ‘RF’ on it in marker, could you get that for me?”

“Sure thing,” the man said, and he disappeared into the back room. He came back with a large box, set it on the counter, smiled at Henry, and returned to the cash register.

Henry gestured in his direction. “New help? It’s good to hear that you and Doug are that busy.”

Janice shook her head. “That’s Doug’s brother, Joe,” she said. “He’s in between jobs, and just lost his apartment because his roommate was an idiot. He’s staying in our spare room for now, and he’s been helping out around here until he finds something.” She leaned forward and whispered, “I think he feels bad that he can’t pay us for room and board. I hope he finds something soon, though, I’m running out of things for him to do.” She unfastened the invoice from the top of the box and set it on the counter in front of Henry.

Henry watched him for a few moments. Doug’s brother was certainly charming with the customers—all of them, not just the pretty ones. And he had moved that long line of customers pretty quickly. “Forgive me for asking, but I assume since you have him running the register that he’s trustworthy?” He signed the invoice, and took the copy that Janice handed him.

“Absolutely,” Janice said. “He’s a good guy. Joe’s friends aren’t always good people, but he is.” She cocked her head and regarded him. “You need a new tasting room person, don’t you?”

“Yes,” Henry replied. “Martin left right before Corbin died.”

Janice made a face. “How awful for you and Gordon!”

Henry shrugged. “I can’t really blame him. Our futures are a bit up in the air right now, although I’m feeling more hopeful about everything—Corbin’s beneficiary is coming out next week.”

“Well, I can recommend Joe. All of my regulars like him, and I know he’s worked as a nightclub bartender here and there—so he’d be used to dealing with crowds. Talk to him,” she urged. “I can’t afford to pay him to work here, although I’m happy to let him keep staying with us.”

Henry reached for the box.

“Hey, I’ll get that!” Joe came over and scooped it up.

“Joe, this is Henry Chough,” Janice said. “He’s the winemaker at River’s Flow Winery—he makes the wine we sell over on the far wall.”

Henry was aware of an appraising russet gaze flicking over him. 

“Winemaker, huh?” Joe said. “That’s pretty cool.”

“The winery has a job opening, Joe,” Janice said, and she gestured at Henry. “I told Henry you might be a good fit.”

“Really?” Joe looked at Henry as if seeing him anew. “I have to admit I’m more of a beer guy, but I’ve poured a lot of wine behind the bar.”

Henry laughed. “I appreciate your honesty. Could you help me get my order out to my car, and we can talk about it?”He thanked Janice and walked out to his car, popping the trunk lid with his key fob so that Joe could put the box in the trunk. “I usually stop over at Eat Your Vegetables for lunch before I head back to the winery,” he said, nodding toward the little cafe across the parking lot. “Why don’t you join me and I can tell you about the position?” 

“Uh, sure,” Joe said. “I’ll just let Janice know I’ll be away for a bit, and I’ll ditch the apron.” He went back into the shop.

Well, Henry thought, Joe had just scored a few points for his courtesy toward his sister-in-law. 

A few minutes later they were seated out on the cafe’s patio, and Henry enjoyed a falafel sandwich while Joe sipped at a berry smoothie.

“I’m not much of a veggie person,” Joe said, “but these pretty much taste like milkshakes.” He leaned back in his chair. “So, I’m guessing you work at the winery whose owner died last month?”

“Yes,” Henry said.

“I’m sorry, man, that’s rough. Doesn’t that mean you’re closing?”

“Oh, no,” Henry said. “Corbin—the owner—left the property to a longtime friend, who is coming out next week. My immediate problem is that my tasting room manager left soon after Corbin passed away, and right now the only people running the tasting room are me and Gordon, the vineyard manager. Unfortunately, we can’t handle the tasting room and our regular duties, especially as we’re getting close to harvest.”

“So that’s where you need me?”

“Yes. In a way, the tasting room is like a small bar,” Henry said, “except that we only sell our wine. People can do tastings for a small fee, and many people end up buying bottles of wine enjoy there, or to take home. Sometimes people just stop in to have a glass or two and relax.” He nodded over at Local Flavor. “We serve a limited menu of snack items, most of which come from Doug and Janice’s shop, so I guess it would be similar to working at a bar.”

Joe nodded. “I’ve handled food service at some of the places I’ve been. I don’t know anything about wine, though.”

“That’s okay, I can teach you about the wines. I’m more interested in your skill with dealing with customers. I watched you wait on that line of customers earlier, and I was impressed with how you kept your cool, kept the line moving, and kept everyone smiling.” Henry finished his sandwich and took a long sip of his iced green tea. “The tasting room can get a little hectic on the weekends.”

“Heh, I know hectic. Ladies’ Night on a Saturday night, that’s hectic.”

Henry smiled. “Eventually, I’ll want to put you in charge of ordering for the room, as well as helping out here and there at the winery, especially during harvest.”

“Is this full-time?” Joe asked. “And I’m guessing nights and weekends?”

“Yes and yes,” Henry replied, “although not too late. We finish up at 7 Thursday through Saturday, and Sundays we’re open until 5. We’re closed Monday and Tuesday, so that would be your weekend.” He named a pay rate. “That’s to start, and as your duties increase, your pay will. We pay overtime during harvest, because we need all hands on deck.”

“Wow, that’s pretty good pay,” Joe said. “Are you sure? You don’t know me from Adam, and shouldn’t there be like, a resume, interview, and references?”

“Your resume was taking care of that shop full of customers,” Henry said, “we’re doing our interview right now, and Janice is your reference. She said you were good people.”

“Aww, that was nice of her,” Joe said, and then he grinned and held out his hand. “I’d like to give it a shot, Mr. Chough.”

Henry clasped Joe’s hand for a brief, firm shake. “Please, call me Henry. We’re not formal at all at River’s Flow.”

Joe smiled. “Henry, then. When do you want me to start?”

He had a nice smile, Henry thought. “As soon as you can, please. Tomorrow would be wonderful.”

“Tomorrow it is. What time?”

“Let’s say nine. The tasting room is closed on Wednesdays for now, so I can spend tomorrow showing you around.” Henry took out his wallet and retrieved a business card. “The address is on the card, it’s actually not very far from here. My cell is on there too, give me a call or text when you’re on your way and I’ll make sure I’m out front to meet you.”

They walked back across the parking lot, and when Henry stopped at his car Joe put a hand on his shoulder.

“I’ll see you tomorrow, Henry,” Joe said, “and thanks for taking a chance on me.”

Henry got into his car, and while he started it he watched Joe go inside. Moments later he heard Janice’s squeals of delight; obviously Joe had shared his good news. 

Yes, he was taking a chance, but he’d not had much luck using the traditional route in looking to fill the position. If nothing else, he’d seen that Joe could handle a room full of busy people and stay charming and helpful.

Henry hoped the chance would pay off, for all their sakes.


	4. Chapter 4

Koren wasted no time getting out of Philadelphia, as well as out of his aunt’s well-meaning but annoying clutches. 

But as he drove along the winding, tree-lined miles of Route 1, with the top down and the Bang & Olufsen stereo cranked up, Koren reflected that being able to borrow his aunt’s Audi was well worth the price of having dinner and an overnight stay at the mansion.

Aunt Corinne, predictably, had been delighted to learn of his inheritance. “Darling, how wonderful,” she’d said over dinner, “You should absolutely _not_ sell it. Keep it. Corbin was such a good influence on you, I always thought it was so generous of him to invite you to stay at his property every summer. ”

“You were just glad to get me out of your hair for a few months,” Koren had retorted.

“You were glad to get away, too, I think,” she’d replied, with a flicker of understanding in her gaze, and then she had moved on to quizzing him about work and life in Chicago.

He _had_ been glad to get away. Aunt Corinne was pretty much the definition of a Main Line society matron, and Koren had spent much of his youth avoiding the numerous galas, picnics, and other charity events that she would host at her sprawling Havertown mansion. Weekends and summers at Corbin’s place had provided a much-needed means of escaping the extravagant—and sometimes suffocating—lifestyle he’d been dropped into after his parents’ deaths.

It was funny how two people could have the same obscene amount of land and money and live in such completely different ways.

When he reached Chadds Ford he found himself making the turn onto Creek Road before the car’s navigation (and the signs) told him to, driving on memory-induced autopilot, and when Koren saw the sparkling waters of the Brandywine he felt the tension in him begin to ease away.

The river stayed to his left as he maneuvered the twists and turns of the road, peeking at him from the occasional gaps in the trees that hugged its banks. It occurred to Koren that he’d never stayed at River’s Flow in late August; the impending start of school had always consumed most of that month, and then as the school year became more demanding his weekend visits became more sporadic, leaving only the summers. And then college took him away entirely.

How many years had it been since he’d been here? At least five, maybe six. Five, Koren decided—he’d stayed for a weekend when Corbin had thrown a party to celebrate his college graduation. The party had consisted of him, Corbin and Morris, and a few other artist friends, grilling steaks and fresh corn on the grill on the riverbank, and then drinking several bottles of Corbin’s Riesling while they sat in Adirondack chairs and dangled their bare feet in the waters of the Brandywine.

A much better party, Koren thought, than the one his aunt had orchestrated, a catered affair with a live band and dozens of people Koren had never even met.

He beat the navigation to the final turn, and when he rounded a bend in the road River’s Flow came into view to his left, and the sight of row upon row of lush, green grapevines made Koren’s chest ache. He pulled over onto the shoulder, cut the engine, and smoked a cigarette while he gazed at the vineyard.

 _His_ vineyard.

A low, cross-buck fence that followed the curves of the road all along the front of the property was new—to him, anyway—as was the profusion of wildflowers that bloomed along the roadside just in front of the fence. The last time Koren had visited there had been trees along the road, not a fence and vines, and he guessed Corbin had felled them to expand the vineyard, and increase visibility from the road. It was certainly a picturesque sight, and Koren knew he’d be back to this spot to work on one of the required paintings.

He started the car back up and eased it back onto the road.

A dozen yards down the road, a sign pointed the way to the winery’s tasting room. 

“Tasting room, huh,” Koren murmured to himself. Something else that was new, although Koren vaguely recalled Corbin telling him a few years ago that he was planning on doing some renovations to the old stone building that were the remnants of the ‘gentleman’s farm’ that had been in his family for generations. 

How had he misjudged the scale of what Corbin had been working on all these years? Koren figured it was because there had already been a small vineyard there when he’d first visited River’s Flow, a few rows in an old pasture that had produced a few dozen bottles of wine every year. Not enough to sell, but enough to give as Christmas gifts every year—he had dutifully brought a bottle home for Aunt Corinne after his Christmas visits—and to have some ‘house wine,’ as Corbin jokingly called it. So later on, whenever the old man talked about ‘the winery’ during their various get-togethers, Koren’s thoughts always went to that small vine-filled pasture. 

The acres of vines he was driving past now used to be pastures that Corbin would rent out to local horse owners. He couldn’t begin to imagine how many bottles these fields were producing.

At the main entrance to the property, a large, carved sign welcomed him to ‘River’s Flow Winery and Vineyard.’ Gravel crunched under the Audi’s wheels as Koren turned onto the main drive and headed through a small patch of sun-dappled woods that led to a clearing with two old stone buildings and a parking area.

Koren slowed the car as he stared in disbelief at the large barn. Besides the main house, the barn and stables were two of four stone buildings on the property, and when Corbin had talked about renovations, Koren had assumed he’d meant repairs on this old barn, whose roof and clapboard had been dodgy the last time Koren had seen it. 

This wasn’t just repairs.

The old slate roof was gone, replaced with slanted, gleaming copper, and the stone gables beneath had been replaced with a myriad of staggered, framed windows. A long row of windows ran just under the edge of the roof, and at ground level there were tall windows set in the brown fieldstone, flanking glass double doors. In front of the building a large, flagstone patio curved out gracefully, filled with clusters of umbrella-shaded tables, a fire pit, and blooming planters that perched on the low walls that separated the patio from the gravel parking lot.

Obviously the tasting room.

There were no other cars in the lot, which didn’t really surprise Koren since it _was_ a Monday. He pulled into the closest spot and got out of the car, and as he walked onto the patio he looked over at the other building, which had been one of the old stables. It too had been repaired and updated, although not nearly as extensively as the barn. Its wooden doors sported fresh paint and new hardware, and it had a new roof as well. He wondered what it was being used for now.

The room looked dark inside. Koren checked his watch; it was almost noon. He hadn’t really nailed down a when and where for meeting Henry Chough, and now he felt like an idiot standing outside a place that was obviously closed.

“What the hell?” he muttered, and he cupped his hands against the glass door of the entrance and pressed his face close to peer inside.


	5. Chapter 5

Gordon finished stowing away the cleaning equipment, and then he checked his watch; Henry had said Koren van Sant was supposed to arrive in the afternoon, and it was just before twelve. With any luck Gordon would be able to grab a shower and some lunch before the guy showed up.

After locking the utility closet, Gordon leaned over the metal catwalk’s railing to admire his handiwork. He’d busted his ass for most of the morning, and now all the empty tanks here were clean and ready for the grapes they would be harvesting next month. He still had a few tanks that needed cleaning in the other storage barn, and couple dozen barrels, but Gordon was pretty confident that he would have everything ready by harvest.

He looked around the large storeroom, admiring the mix of stainless steel and warm brown fieldstone. He was glad Corbin had turned the old stone stable into tank storage instead of tearing it down; it had plenty of room for a dozen tanks, as well as more than enough height for proper catwalk access above. The place still kept its charm, despite all the modern technology that filled it, and Gordon always enjoyed the way customers reacted when he told them that the place used to keep a dozen racehorses instead of a dozen tanks of wine.

Gordon supposed he’d be giving the new owner a tour, even though he knew that van Sant had been to River’s Flow many times when he had been younger. Henry had said he didn’t think the man really understood how big the winery was, thinking Corbin had still just been growing grapes in the small eastern pasture. Well, Koren van Sant was in for a big surprise, Gordon thought, and he smiled as he clomped down the metal steps.

He wondered what Koren looked like now, because the more he thought about it, Koren had to be the guy he’d seen with Corbin all those years ago. Gordon remembered a skinny teenager with golden-blond hair and a beautiful face—well, beautiful except for the scowl he always had. There were at least half a dozen of Corbin’s photos of Koren hanging in the main barn’s tasting room and office, but they were all a mix of distance and side angles and rear angles—not to mention all in black and white—that gave more an impression than a likeness. After studying them, Gordon came away with the opinion that Koren Van Sant had a really nice ass.

The guy was in his twenties now, right? Mid twenties at least, since Gorden remembered hearing about Koren graduating from college and having a couple different jobs. Only problem was there had been a couple dozen guys that age at the funeral—Corbin had taught photography at a nearby college, as well as one of the museums in Wilmington, so a lot of former students had shown up in fancy suits to pay their respects. A few of them were even pretty like the boy he remembered. Most of them, though, had eyed Gordon’s work-roughened hands and tanned skin and dismissed him with ‘what are you doing here’ looks, while they laughed at each other’s reminiscences about their crazy professor. 

One guy hadn’t done that, though. He’d been out on the terrace of the restaurant everyone had gone to after the funeral, smoking a cigarette in the semi-dark and staring out at the river when Gordon had stumbled outside, desperate to get away from everyone.

“You had enough of those assholes, too, I guess,” the guy had said. “They all act like they had been his favorite student.” 

Gordon had choked out a laugh through his grief-constricted throat. “Yeah, but he really thought they were all idiots.”

“Sounds about right. So you knew the old man?”

“Yeah,” Gordon had replied. “He was great. A little crazy, but great.”

“Yeah, he was.”

Neither one of them said anything after that, but Gordon had found a comfort of sorts in the other man’s silent acceptance of his presence there.

Thinking about the funeral brought a lump to Gordon’s throat, and he busied himself with checking the remaining tanks while he tried to push down the grief that bubbled up so easily. Corbin had been more than just a boss, he had treated Gordon—and Henry—like family instead of employees. But he was gone, and now a stranger owned the place, a stranger who’d been away for years and had no clue what was going on.

Gordon sighed, and remembered Henry’s admonition to be patient. He was right; ultimately, Corbin had wanted Koren to have the place, and while Corbin had acted goofy a lot of the time, he had also been what Gordon’s grandmother called ‘crazy like a fox.’ Gordon needed to trust that the old man had done the right thing. 

He just really hoped Koren wasn’t one of the assholes that had been at the funeral.

He pushed opened the door, blinking as he stepped out into the bright sunlight, and he raised a hand to shield his eyes as he walked across the gravel lot. He stopped when he saw the pale blue Audi, and his gaze flew to the tasting room’s patio entrance, where a man stood with hands pressed against the glass, trying to look inside.

Slender. Blond hair. Really nice ass.

“Mr. Van Sant?” Gordon said. “Koren?”

The man turned, the frown on his face turning to an expression of surprise when he saw Gordon. “It’s you,” he said. “You were at the restaurant, after the funeral.”

Gordon blinked. It was the guy from the terrace, the one who’d been kind of nice to him, in a grumpy sort of way. A wave of relief flooded through him. “Hi,” he said, and he strode over to the door, his hand extended. “I’m Gordon. Gordon Sonnier.”

A thin hand clasped his, gave a firm shake, and then let go. “Call me Koren,” the man said. “You work here?” He looked at Gordon for a few seconds, a puzzled frown on his face.

Looked like Koren didn’t recognize him. Not surprising, considering Gordon had been eleven when they’d met. “Yeah,” Gordon replied, “I’m the vineyard manager.”

Koren’s frown deepened. “I thought Henry Chough was the manager.”

Gordon smiled. _Let the education begin,_ he thought. “He’s the winery manager. I take care of the vineyard and grow the grapes, Henry makes the wine and handles selling it.” He dug his keys out of his pocket and unlocked the door. “Henry said he needed to stop at the bank on his way in,” he said, “he’ll be here any minute. Come on in.”

Koren followed him into the room. “What did Corbin do?” he asked.

“Drank wine, schmoozed with the customers, and paid the bills,” Gordon said, and then he laughed. “Really, he did a little bit of everything. We all do.” He flicked on the lights and waved a hand at the cluster of tables and the long counter beyond. “Sit wherever you want. You want some water? A glass of wine?”

“Water, please.” Koren slid into a nearby chair. “You look awfully young to be a vineyard manager. What are you, twenty?”

Gordon shrugged as he filled two glasses with ice and tap water. “Twenty-two. I get that a lot. But I grew up on a farm, growing fruits and vegetables, and grapes are fruit.” He handed one of the glasses to Koren, pulled out one of the other chairs, and plopped down into it. He drank some water and watched Koren’s throat move as he drank his. The pretty teen he’d met all those years ago had grown into an abso-fucking-lutely gorgeous man. Corbin’s photos didn’t do him justice.

Koren stared at Gordon for a few moments. “A farm… wait a minute, are you the kid I used to see when Corbin and I went to the farm stand on Saturdays?”

“Yup, that’s me.” Gordon was glad Koren remembered him.

“Hunh,” Koren said. “Years ago, Corbin had said he was going to hire you to help him with the grapevines.”

“Well, he did, and here I am. I’ve been at River’s Flow full-time for a little over four years.”

Koren looked at the photos behind the counter, and then all the paintings on the walls. “Those are photos of me,” he said. “And those paintings over there are mine.”

“Yeah, Corbin said he took those photos while you were painting. They weren’t for sale, and neither was your stuff.”

Koren set his glass on the table and got up to look at the photos. “I never knew he took these,” he said, “and I didn’t know he kept all my paintings.” He walked over to one of the other walls, one that held dozens of large, framed photographs. “These were his? It looks like his work.”

“Yeah,” Gordon replied, and he drank some more water. “He sold a lot of them. Henry took the prices off these, he said we should wait to see if you wanted to keep any of them first.”

Koren looked back at him. “I’ll have to thank him for that.”

A jingling of bells behind him told Gordon that Henry had arrived. “You can thank him now. Hi, Henry,” he said, “this is Koren.”

Henry strode over to shake Koren’s hand. “Mr. van Sant, I’m very pleased to meet you. I’m sorry I was late.”

“Koren,” Koren said, and he waved a hand to dismiss Henry’s apology. “It’s no problem, we didn’t really set a time to meet.” He gestured at the wall of Corbin’s photos. “Gordon said you took the prices off these until I could see them. Thank you, I appreciate that.”

Henry nodded. “We felt that you should see them first, and pick out any you want to keep. They sell well.”

“I can see why, his work has always been different from what most photographers sell.”

“I agree,” Henry said, and he walked behind the long counter to get himself some water. “Your work is different as well, I can see Corbin’s influence. People ask all the time about buying your paintings, but Corbin always refused.”

Koren stared at him. “People wanted to buy my paintings?”

“Oh, yes,” Henry said. “I could have sold them a dozen times over.”

“Go ahead and sell them,” Koren said. “I don’t care about keeping them.”

Gordon watched Henry blink in surprise at the response. Looked like Koren didn’t care about a lot of things, he thought. He hoped that he and Henry could make Koren care about keeping River’s Flow. “So Koren’s here. What do we do now?”

Henry sat down next to him. “ _We_ keep doing what we usually do.” He looked over at Koren. “Have you seen Morris yet?”

Koren shook his head. “I’m meeting him for breakfast later this week. We talked on the phone, though, and my six weeks starts today. Six weeks, six paintings.”

“It’s a shame you don’t get any time to settle in,” Henry said.

Koren shrugged. “I don’t see a problem with doing the paintings, that’ll be the easy part. The harder part is that I also have to help out with all the different things you do, and I have no clue about any of it. Sometimes I helped him with pruning and trimming, but back then he just had five rows, on what, an acre? I drove by way more than five rows. And he didn’t sell the shit, we just drank it and he gave bottles out for Christmas.”

Gordon smiled. He could so see Corbin doing that—and over the years the old man had still given out bottles of special reserves. “You’ll be fine.”

Henry nodded in agreement. “We’ll be right here to guide you. We can really use the help, though—especially here. Our tasting room manager quit right after Corbin has his heart attack, so Gordon and I have been having to squeeze in working extra hours here in addition to our regular duties.”

“I thought you said you were going to hire someone,” Koren said. “You asked me about it when I called you.”

“Yes, and I actually had someone start last week,” Henry said. “But he’s new, and it’ll take awhile before he can be on his own.”

“Besides,” Gordon said, “we all have to work the tasting room on the weekends, and help with tours. That was one of Corbin’s rules. It can get nuts here on a nice Saturday—and batshit crazy when it’s a wine trail weekend. Speaking of…Henry, when’s the next one?”

“Three weeks, thank goodness. We have some time to get Joe and Koren trained, and a couple of weekends for them to get their feet wet.”

“You sound like you’re planning for battle,” Koren said.

Gordon laughed. “It seems like it, some days, especially when a whole busload of people show up. But we never have any trouble. People have been real nice about waiting, since it’s been just me and Henry.”

“Wait,” Koren said, “this whole place is run by _three_ people?”

“Four, counting the tasting room manager,” Henry said. “We hire temporary workers during harvest, and a there’s a local bottler who comes by when a vintage is ready. Sometimes our customers help, too. Once Joe is up to speed, you’ll probably only need to put in about twenty hours a week, obviously more during harvest. Corbin spent most of his time doing his photography.”

Koren abruptly rose from his chair. “You’re assuming that I’m going to be staying here.”

Henry looked up at him, frowning. “I did. You’ve inherited a home, as well as a wonderful way to make a living.”

“I already have a job. In Chicago.”

A shot of fear made Gordon’s stomach clench, and he shot up from his chair, ignoring the way it clattered to the floor. “Then why are you here?”

Koren met his gaze, his face impassive. “Because a number of people, including my lawyer, said I can sell it and make a decent amount of money. But I can’t do that unless I follow Corbin’s stupid stipulations. So I’m here for my six weeks, and that’s it.” He turned to Henry and held out his hand. “I need a key to the house.”

Henry’s hand shook as he pulled his keys from his pocket and removed a Hello Kitty keyring that held a pair of keys. He dropped them into Koren’s hand. “These were Corbin’s,” he said stiffly.

“Thanks.” Koren turned and left, and a few minutes later Gordon and Henry heard the Audi roar to life, and then a minute later the crunch of gravel under car tires faded into silence.

Henry went to the counter, fished out two glasses from underneath, uncorked the nearest bottle and poured two generous glasses. Gordon came over to stand on the other side, and he took one of the glasses and gulped down some of the wine.

“That didn’t exactly go as I had planned,” Henry said, and then he drank half his glass.

“We’re fucked,” Gordon said. “I thought it was going to be a good thing, that Corbin had left the place to someone he knew instead of it just getting sold.” He drank some more wine. “I thought he did it because he thought Koren loved the place. But Koren doesn’t, he’s just a jerk that wants to sell it and make money.” 

“Maybe he did,” Henry said, “but he’s obviously forgotten. It makes me wonder if Corbin made all those stipulations to try and get Koren to love River’s Flow again.”

“I hope so.” Gordon took another gulp, trying to drown the fear that threatened to spread throughout his body. “’Cause _I_ love it, and I want to keep working here.”

Henry nodded, and he touched his glass to Gordon’s. “Me too,” he said quietly. “But it looks like we have our work cut out for us.”


	6. Chapter 6

The thick window glass rattled as Koren pulled the door shut behind him with a little more force than was necessary. It took him a minute to find the small foyer’s light switch, and then he dropped his suitcase and backpack on the floor in front of the stairs.

He took a deep breath, and the smell of old books, stale pipe smoke, and _Corbin_ almost made Koren lose what little composure he had left.

He made his way into the living room, and after switching on the lights he headed straight for the antique icebox that served as a liquor cabinet and poured himself a healthy dose of bourbon. The burn of a few gulps of the liquor brought a measure of calm, and Koren sipped at rest while he viewed his surroundings.

Not much had changed, really, in the five years since his last visit. The first painting he had given Corbin all those years ago still hung above the fireplace mantel. The leather sofa was new, and there were a few new photos on the crowded walls that flanked the fireplace. Koren walked over to inspect them. In between older photos of him and Morris, there were candid shots of Gordon and Henry, and the affection toward the subjects was obvious. His gaze fell on a photo of Gordon, surrounded by sunflowers, smiling as he pulled one toward him and basked in its golden glow.

Koren finished off the bourbon and poured himself another, and then he sank wearily into the soft cushions of the sofa, nearly jumping out of his skin when he head the click of nails on the hardwood floor, and a familiar whine. “Shit, Dragon,” he said, holding his glass high as the dog jumped onto his lap and tried to cover him in dog slobber. “You’re still here? They didn’t say—”

No, Henry and Gordon didn’t say anything about the dog, because Koren hadn’t given them the chance to. But it was probably why Henry carried the key, instead of storing it away. Dogs needed to be fed and walked.

“How you doing, old man?” he asked the dog, and got more slobber in return. It didn’t take long to remember Dragon’s favorite spots to be scratched, and he soon had the dog sprawled across his lap while he buried his free hand in silky white fur. Dragon wasn’t that old, really, Koren did some mental math and figured he was somewhere around twelve, late middle-age for a Border Collie. “For the record, you totally suck at being a watchdog.”

Dragon licked his wrist and pushed his head under Koren’s hand.

He needed to focus on what needed to get done. Corbin, in his infinite insanity, had been ridiculously specific about the required paintings; six paintings, one per week, executed in oils on canvases that increased in size each week from an 8x10 the first week to a 30x40 in the last week. It seemed like the crazy old man was putting him through a ‘How to Get Your Painting Mojo Back’ workshop, and then adding in ‘Winemaking 101’ as well.

Koren wasn’t stupid, he knew what Corbin was trying to do. Corbin had always wanted him to pursue his painting, and had complained, pouted, and finally sighed when Koren had announced he was majoring in graphic design and marketing instead. Morris had been against it, too, but it had surprised him when Nik had taken his side, although the support had not come without Nik’s usual dose of venom. 

_“Go find a good day job, kid, and paint your pretty pictures on the side. Maybe someday, someone will even buy one.”_

Koren _had_ found a good day job, and he’d done well enough that at twenty-seven he’d worked his way up to Art Director in the three years he’d been at Three Aspects Advertising. Sometimes the hours were insane, and sometimes the stress of deadlines made him bone-weary, but he was making good money and it was _his_ , not something that came from his aunt, or that Corbin had sneakily pulled stings for. He supposed he should be grateful that he’d been cared for by two very wealthy people, but his pride had demanded that he make his own way.

“And yet, here I am,” Koren said to himself as he rubbed his thumb over a velvety-soft ear, and Dragon snuffled contentedly and closed his eyes. Why _was_ he here? Gordon’s question echoed in his mind, and so did the memory of Gordon’s hurt, confused expression. It had been strange to see him here, after sharing that quiet moment of grief after the funeral. All the other people his age there had been practically bragging about having known Corbin Sanderson, the famous photographer, but to Koren and Gordon, Corbin had just been a crazy old man they’d both loved.

Koren shook his head to try and clear his jumbled thoughts, and Dragon’s tags clinked as the dog gazed up at him. He gave Dragon’s head a final pat, and then got up from the sofa. “Let’s go upstairs, mutt,” he said, and Dragon followed him as he retrieved his suitcase and climbed the narrow staircase.

There was no fucking way he was staying in Corbin’s room, even though Morris had come in and taken all of Corbin’s clothes to a local charity, so Koren went further down the hall to the last bedroom, the one that used to be his when he stayed there. Apparently, Corbin had still thought of it as Koren’s room, because it still looked the same as it had five years before, except that the walls had a number of his old sketches on them, and above the old oak dresser Koren saw another one of his paintings hanging above it, the one he had done of Corbin and Morris smoking together by the river. He tossed the suitcase on the bed, and began transferring its contents into the dresser drawers.

A knock at the front door startled him, when he heard the door creak open Dragon shot out of the room like a white arrow.

“Koren? It’s Gordon. I’ve come to—hey there, buddy!” The sound of jangling tags and a happy dog drifted up the staircase. “I’m gonna take Dragon with me to do some trimming, and let him get some outside time. You want to come along?”

It was an olive branch, but Koren wasn’t quite ready to take it. “No, thanks,” he called down. “I have to unpack, make a list of painting supplies, and go out and get some groceries.”

“Okay. I’ll let Dragon back in later on this afternoon.”

“That’s fine.” Koren listened to Gordon talk to the dog as they walked away, and when Gordon’s voice faded he returned to his task. When he was done putting the clothes away, he hung the suit he’d brought in the closet, and then he opened the smaller, angled door that was was just under the roof line. 

Sure enough, his folding easel and paintbox were in there.

“It’s like a goddamn time warp,” he muttered, and he set them on the bed and sat down next to them. The easel had been a birthday gift from Corbin, presented to him that first November after he’d started his weekend visits. It was an Italian version of what was called a French easel, a combination of paintbox, easel, and canvas carrier that folded up and had leather straps that let the box be worn like a backpack. It was meant for outdoor painting, and let an artist set up on any terrain. On subsequent Christmases and birthdays Corbin and Aunt Corinne added accessories, and Koren had been quickly kitted out with a superb set of outdoor painting gear. 

Koren unpacked the paints from the easel’s box, and then he undid the latches on the wooden paint box and emptied its contents, arranging the tubes in color order. A quick squeeze of each tube revealed that most of the paints were pretty hard, although the bottles of linseed oil and other mediums were still good. He inspected the brushes, and then he fished out a rag from one of the easel’s drawers and gave the wooden palette a good once-over with some linseed oil. When he was done he packed everything back up, and brought it downstairs.

He pulled out his phone from his pocket and started tapping out a list. He would need all the colors, probably an extra bottle or two of the mediums, and a few more brushes.

He added lamp black to the list, mostly as a ‘fuck you’ to Corbin’s manipulations from beyond the grave—one of the first things the old man had done on the day they’d met was to take away everyone’s black paint, forcing all the students to mix their own blacks. He probably wouldn’t use it, because Koren had quickly come to prefer the mixed blacks over anything that came in a tube. 

“I’m still adding it,” he shouted to the empty house, “just to fuck with you, old man!”


	7. Chapter 7

“Van Sant! Sleeping on of the bus is not going to give you a passing grade in this class!”

Startled, Koren yanked himself up to a sitting position, and as he yawned widely he ignored the sniggers coming from some of the other students, who were busy gathering their gear and exiting the bus. He rubbed his face, and then grabbed his backpack and quickly followed the last boy out to stand, swaying, in a loose line along the side of the bus.

“So glad you could join us, Mr. Van Sant,” the teacher drawled. “All right, I need each of you to get an easel, a canvas, and a paintbox, and go stand over by that barn. Our host will be with us shortly, and our day of plein-air will begin!”

The boys crowded around the back of the bus and collected their supplies. While they walked, Koren looked around at he place where they would be spending the day. It was a old farm—really old, judging by the fact that all the buildings were made of stone. There were large fields on both sides of the worn, gravel road, dotted with patches of wildflowers and edged with stands of lush woodland. He peered further down the road and caught a glimpse of sparkling water. This place was nothing like the immaculately manicured golf courses and parks that surrounded his home, and Koren liked it immediately.

Moments later their host arrived, pulling up in an old green jeep, and a white dog immediately jumped out and ran over toward the students. A middle-aged man got out of the jeep, and Koren thought he was the most ridiculous person he’d ever seen; the man sported a long ponytail under a large, floppy hat, and he wore the loudest Hawaiian shirt Koren had ever had the misfortune to see over a pair of baggy cargo shorts. His smile was wide and could probably have turned vampires to dust on the spot.

“Mind your manners, Dragon,” the man said, and the young dog immediately sat down, although his tail continued to wag a mile a minute. “Welcome, welcome!” he said. “Welcome to River’s Flow.” He smiled even wider, a feat that Koren thought should have been impossible.

Their teacher came over to stand next to the man. “Gentlemen, this is Corbin Sanderson, and you are standing on land that has been in his family for five generations. While Mr. Sanderson mainly works in photography now, I was fortunate to be his student when he taught art years ago. He has graciously agreed to give us access to his property today, for you to paint _en plein air_ on the banks of the Brandywine, like he did with my class years ago.”

“Who knows what _en plein air_ means?” Corbin asked. 

Gravel crunched as a number of the boys kicked at the ground, and there was silence for a few moments.

“In the open air,” Koren said.

“Ah, someone who paid attention in French class!” Corbin said. He gestured at the surrounding farmland. “You are all in the open air, on this glorious May morning. We are fortunate to still have mild weather, although I hope you all brought sunscreen, especially you—” he pointed at Koren, ”—my pale-skinned young friend. You may go anywhere on the property your inspiration takes you, but I do ask that you not enter any of the buildings. A few of them are not quite safe, although I’ve been working to fix that.” He walked over to stand in front of the young men. “What did Sean give you to paint on?” he asked.

Several of the boys held up 11x14 canvases.

“Oh, pish,” Corbin said. “Really, Sean? 11x14?”

Koren was fascinated to watch his teacher flush in embarrassment.

“I don’t have a large budget.”

“You work for an exclusive boys’ school and you don’t have enough of a budget to give them something decent to paint on?” Corbin sighed. “I had a feeling you would have this problem, no one cares about the arts any more. I have two cases of 16x20 canvases in the back of the Jeep, would you be so kind to give them out?”

Koren heard a few muffled snickers as his teacher retrieved the canvases and handed them out, taking back the smaller ones.

“Excellent,” Corbin said. “Can’t have you out here painting on a postage stamp. Now, please open your paintboxes.”

Koren undid the latch of his wooden box along with the others.

“Any black paint in there?”

Koren peered into the box, poked around at the tubes, and held up a tube of lamp black. Fourteen other tubes were held up.

“Sean Richards, have I taught you nothing?” Corbin pointed at the offending tubes. “Tube black is for sissies. Certainly not for serious art students, and I hope the fact that they are here on this trip indicates some level of dedication to art.” He took off his hat and held it out like a church offering basket. “In here, now. There is to be no tube black in your box. You will mix any blacks you need, and I certainly hope you have been taught how to mix several varieties.”

When he collected all of the tubes, he dumped them in the back of the Jeep and then he plunked his hat back on top of his head. “All right, now. Go! Explore! Paint! At four-thirty, we’ll meet at my house, which is down the road right by the river, and we’ll have ourselves a nice barbecue.”

The bus left for the day, and the boys scattered, heading off across the rolling hills, some setting up by the old stone barn, some striding down to the river, and others trekking down a dirt path that led to the large meadow beyond the barn. Koren looked around, trying to decide where to go.

The barn was too obvious, he decided, as was the river. But the wildflowers looked interesting, so he hiked along the dirt path, and set up near a patch of riotous color. The cheap folding easel was wobbly on the uneven ground, and after the second time his canvas fell off, he cursed and dug into the soil to secure it. He squeezed out some burnt umber onto his disposable palette and tried to sketch out the area before him.

He yelped in surprised when a hat landed on his head. He whirled around to see Corbin Sanderson smiling at him, and Dragon stood by his side, tail wagging.

“Can’t have you getting sunburnt,” he said. “Your face is already pink, and it’s not even ten yet.”

Koren mumbled his thanks.

“What’s your name, young man?”

“Koren Van Sant,” Koren replied.

“Ah, a splendid Dutch name,” Corbin replied. “So, Koren Van Sant, what are you planning to paint today?”

Koren gestured at the wildflowers.

Corbin yawned, raising his hand to his mouth. “Bo-ring,” he said. “You have almost a hundred acres to choose from, and you pick wildflowers. Mind you, that’s better than the barn or the stable—or even the river, as much as Brandywine Creek practically runs in my blood.” He held out his hands so that his thumbs touched and formed the bottom half of a rectangle. “Do this,” he said, and when Koren complied he said, “This will help you focus. Choose something out of the ordinary, or something ordinary that is in an unusual setting, or tells a different story than we expect. Don’t just see,” he said, tapping between Koren’s eyes, “but _see_.” His finger moved to Koren’s forehead. “Don’t make the easy choices. Use your artist’s eye.”

And with that, he called his dog and ambled further down the path, whistling an aimless tune.

Koren stared after him for a full minute, and then his gaze landed on the spot he had intended to paint. Corbin was right. How many people painted shit like that? How many people painted barns and trees and other—yes, _boring_ —stuff because it was easier?

He looked around, trying to see the land around him differently. High grass, swaying, flowers dotting the sea of green. No different stories there. His gaze moved to the dirt path, and he noticed a handful of stray flowers strewn on the ground, yanked by unthinking teenaged hands that had passed there before him, and trampled by feet clad in designer footwear.

All except one, a daisy that lay untouched amid the carnage that surrounded it, pristine next to the deep indentations of a left Doc Martens boot.

_There._

Koren yanked the easel out from where he secured it, and set it up again.

The hours passed in a blur, and Koren had to force himself to stop for lunch, although he munched on his sandwich with one hand while he continued painting with the other. He was grateful for the hat as the afternoon wore on, as well as the extra water that Mr. Richards had told them to pack. He had just put the finishing touches on the painting when three of his classmates plowed by, unthinkingly ruining his setup as they raced each other to the river. He spared a glance at the now-trampled daisy, and then he packed up and headed down to their meeting spot.

Koren wasn’t sure what he had expected, maybe a dirt lot next to a sandy riverbank. He didn’t expect a stone house with a large, walled patio that faced the river, and a rolling, grassy bank beyond that ran to the river’s edge. It was surrounded by woods on three sides, and the river on the other, and Koren thought it looked like a secret place. He stood still and closed his eyes as the river breeze kissed his cheeks, and the scent of grilling food made his mouth water.

“Ah, we have our last straggler!”

He opened his eyes to see Corbin smiling at him, wearing a different hat and manning a large grill. A number of the boys were already eating, and the rest were loading plates from a laden table covered with a red-checked cloth.

“Set your work on your easel over there,” Corbin said, waving a pair of tongs at the far side of the patio, “and after we’re done eating I will inspect everyone’s masterpieces!” 

As a rule, Koren didn’t eat much, so he was surprised to find himself practically wolfing down a heaping plateful of food.

While he munched on a slice of fresh watermelon, he watched Corbin examine the paintings. With each student, Corbin had positive things to say about their painting, and then he would offer suggestions to improve aspects that had not been successful. Honest critique, but nothing too harsh or discouraging.

There were a few of his classmates who were very, very good, technique-wise, and Koren was interested in what Corbin would say about their work. But Corbin merely praised their use of light on the river, or their brushwork on the wildflowers, or their grasp of perspective with the stone barn—instead of the effusive praise Koren was expecting—and wistfully expressed the wish that they had chosen a more interesting subject. It was obvious the owners of those works had been expecting more, too, although they preened at the compliments they received. 

Corbin stood quietly for so long in front of his painting that Koren couldn’t help but feel a little nervous.

One of the boys poked him. “He’s trying to find something nice to say, Van Sant,” he whispered.

“Yeah,” one of the others chimed in. “Why the hell did you paint a flower in the dirt?”

“Fuck off,” Koren said.

Corbin turned, and smiled at them all. “Most of these are very nice paintings,” he said. 

“Except yours, Van Sant,” the first boy teased in the same low voice.

Koren ignored him, and kept his gaze on Corbin.

Corbin pointed at Koren’s painting. “This, however, is a work of _art._ It surprised me, and and told me an unexpected story. I could easily see this hanging in a gallery in Chadds Ford—or even in Wilmington or Philadelphia—and fetching a very fine price.” 

He perched on the edge of the patio wall and put out his hands in the same gesture he had shown Koren. “I spoke to all of you about trying to see things in a different way, to try and find the unexpected, and yet here I see three barns, two stables, four Brandywine Creeks, two groups of wildflowers, and two houses.” He nodded over at his home. “Koren was the only one who listened to me.” He smiled again and lowered his hands. “You all have talent, but I implore you to do more than just paint a representation of what you see. Find a story, and tell it to me with paint.”

The bus lumbered down the gravel drive, its brakes whining as it came to a stop next to Corbin’s Jeep. While the teacher instructed the boys how to secure their wet paintings to the canvas carriers, Corbin waved Koren over.

“Well done, my boy,” Corbin said, clapping him on the back. “I didn’t want to embarrass you too much, but this is exceptional. I am very pleased that you listened to me.”

Koren handed him the hat. “Thanks,” he said. 

“Did you enjoy your visit today?”

“Yes,” Koren said, and meant it. “This place is amazing.”

“I thought you were enjoying yourself. Did you know that I stopped by twice to see you?”

Koren’s mouth dropped open.

Corbin’s grin was decidedly impish. “I didn’t think you noticed Dragon and me, you were far too entranced in the thrall of your muse. I think that you must come here again. My friend Morris and I get together here every weekend during the summer, occasionally with a few other artists, and I would love it if you could join us.”

“Me? I’m sixteen.”

“Sixteen, and producing gallery-level work in my meadow. You have the potential to be a great painter, Koren, but I’m not sure that your school—or Sean—can help you get there. Our circle is small, but we are all professional artists who make our living from our work.”

“I…I don’t know what to say,” Koren stammered. “I’d have to ask my aunt.”

“Of course! And of course I would want to speak with her and assure her of my bonafides, and those of my friends.” He handed Koren a small notebook, and Koren scribbled his home phone on one of its pages. He then handed Koren a business card. “Here you go, you can reach me at that number. Let’s try and get you down here soon.” He looked at the painting again. “This is exquisite,” he said. “I would buy this in a heartbeat.”

“You can have it,” Koren blurted.

Corbin shook his head. “I couldn’t accept this.”

“I mean it,” Koren insisted. “I want you to have it, if you really like it.”

“I do, very much. Are you sure, young man?”

Koren nodded. This crazy old man had opened his eyes, and he was seeing everything differently. Giving him the painting was the only thanks he could think of.

“Well, then, I won’t be rude and refuse your generous gift. Thank you very much, Koren.”

“Thank you,” Koren said, “for teaching me how to see.”

Corbin smiled. “There’s something missing, though.”

Koren cast a critical eye at the painting. What had he missed?

Corbin patted him on the shoulder. “All fine art needs the artist’s signature,” he said. “Go get one of your brushes.”

“Oh,” Koren said, and he ran over to his pile of gear.

“Time to pack up, Koren,” his teacher told him, and then continued in a lower voice, “Good job, by the way—the old man is very hard to impress.”

“He’ll just be a minute, Sean,” Corbin called. “Could you please load his things on the bus?”

“What about his painting? I need to show him how to store it.”

“No need,” Corbin said sunnily. “Koren very generously made a gift of it to me when I told him how much I liked it.”

Sean’s eyebrows practically shot up into his hair. 

“I just need the artist to sign his work. Hand him a brush, will you?”

Sean wordlessly handed Koren a brush, and then he picked up the paintbox and carried it back to the bus.

“Hurry, dear boy,” Corbin said to Koren, “you mustn’t keep everyone waiting.” When Koren was standing by his side again, he pointed to the bottom right of the canvas. “There. Use the end of the brush, and scratch your last name in the paint. And let’s make you a proper Dutchman—use a lower case ‘v.’”

Koren reached out with the brush, and with brisk strokes he etched out ‘van Sant’ in the mix of burnt umber, burnt sienna, and viridian green that covered the lower corner of the painting.

“Excellent,” Corbin said, and he held out a hand. “I’m so pleased I met you today, Koren van Sant.” He handed Koren’s borrowed hat back. “I want you to keep this. You’re going to need it, because I promise you, this is just the beginning.”


	8. Chapter 8

After spending most of Tuesday getting all his supplies together, Koren decided that he was going to get the first painting out of the way as quickly as he could. An 8x10 was nothing, and Koren was surprised that Corbin had allowed such a small canvas on the list. There had been more than a few times that Corbin had taken a smaller canvas off his easel and substituted it with a much larger one. ‘Dream a little bigger, darling,’ Corbin would say, and Koren would roll his eyes at the cheesy movie quote and start over again.

Wednesday morning, after breakfast and a long walk with Dragon, Koren packed up and headed out to paint.

At least the smaller canvas was easy to carry. Koren felt the unfamiliar weight of the easel and other gear on his back, and he decided that he wouldn’t stray too far from the house. On a whim, he headed over to the small meadow that held the original rows of the vineyard. When he stepped out onto the field he was taken aback by how many more rows there were—he had only known five rows, and now the entire field was filled with three times that amount, winding along the natural curve of the land.

“Begin at the beginning,” Koren murmured to himself, and he headed over to the original rows. He trudged down one of the narrow, rutted paths between the vines, and as he walked he skimmed his gaze along the rows, looking for just the right grapes, in just the right light—

 _There_. Toward the end of the row, a large, single cluster of yellow-green grapes dangled from the main vine, its plump bounty held in place by a short, pencil-thin stem. As he unfolded the easel and set it up, Koren marveled at the strength in the twig-like stem; the cluster of ripe grapes would easily fill both his hands, yet the slender stem held the fruit firmly in place. He moved the easel here and there, back and forth until he found a spot where the sunlight sparkled behind the grapes, giving them a golden glow that contrasted well with the dappled shadows cast by the vine’s floppy, deep green leaves.

It might have been seven or eight years since he’d painted anything, but his old habits came back as quickly as if it had only been days—he squeezed fat daubs of paint onto his palette in the order he’d always favored, clipped a tin of turpentine to the easel’s right leg, and laid out his favorite brushes in the pull-out drawer. 

_Don’t forget your hat, Korey._

Corbin’s voice echoed in his memory, and Koren removed the floppy, wide brimmed hat from where it had been rolled up and fastened to the paintbox lid. He unrolled it and shook it out, briefly running a thumb over the rough canvas before he settled it on his head. While Koren had always complained about how ridiculous he looked whenever he wore it, he’d had to admit that wearing the hat made it easier to paint in bright sunlight. 

He blocked in the leaves first, working in light green first, and then layering the darker on top to give the illusion of light coming from behind. He roughed in the grapes next, and then spent some more time on the leaves.

He’d painted a lot in the three summers he’d spent at River’s Flow, but Koren still enjoyed the thrill of the moment when a few brush strokes turned rough planes and lines into something almost real. The leaf under his brush had suddenly come alive, and after marveling at it for a moment Koren left it alone and moved on to the next one. 

He took a short break for some water and a few stretches, and after he drank some more water he fanned himself a bit with the hat; he’d forgotten how hot and muggy it could get back East in August. Koren decided that when he did the next painting he would clamp the large white umbrella he had to the easel.

And he was definitely going to unwind at the river’s edge with some whiskey when he was done for the day.

One more stretch, one more swig of water, and Koren donned the hat again and returned to his painting. It didn’t take long to finish up the leaves, and then in a matter of minutes the grapes were done. A few more highlights, a few touch-ups and it was done.

Koren dipped the back of the brush into some thinned burnt umber and signed the bottom left.

_van Sant 1/6_

“Oh my goodness, that’s beautiful.”

Koren started at the sound of Henry’s voice behind him, cursing as he dropped his brush.

Henry picked up the brush and handed it to him, “I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean to sneak up on you. I needed to check the sugar levels in the Riesling, and I didn’t expect to find you here.” He regarded the canvas. “It’s amazing to see you working here, right in front of the subject matter.”

“Eh, it’s rough,” Koren said as he cleaned the brush and put it away in the drawer. “I haven’t done this in years. I didn’t give it a proper background.”

Henry shook his head. “I wouldn’t call it rough. ‘Impromptu,’ perhaps, but that’s what gives the painting its charm. It would make a wonderful wine bottle label.”

Koren could see what he meant—the pale green tones that he’d blended in the background made an ideal spot for copy. “You’re right,” he said, but he frowned as he regarded the painting; he was obviously still thinking like a designer, instead of an artist. He began cleaning the other brushes, and then his palette.

“If you could do similar paintings of our other varietals I can have them made into new bottle labels,” Henry said, and then he smiled. “It would make it special that they were painted by the owner.”

Koren huffed and moved on to packing the paints away. “You’re assuming that I’m keeping the place.”

Henry’s smile faltered a bit, but he quickly recovered. “There’s no hurry to decide, right?” he said. “Either way, I would love for you to paint a series that I can put on the bottles. Labels are a powerful marketing tool in selling a bottle of wine. Here at the vineyard, it doesn’t matter quite as much, since people are either coming here with the intent to buy our wine, or they come for a tasting and buy what they liked. But in a store, you have to catch the buyer’s eye out of all the other bottles on the shelf.” He gestured at the painting. “If I saw a bottle with this label I would want to buy it. I can almost taste those grapes.”

Koren shrugged. “If you want,” he said. “I’ll see what I can do. I can’t have them count toward the six, though—Corbin’s rules said I can’t have the paintings be of the same subject. Also, each painting has to be on an increasingly larger canvas.”

“He was certainly specific, wasn’t he?”

“I can understand it, even though it’s annoying as hell. He doesn’t want me cheating. Otherwise I could bang out six paintings of a bunch of grapes and be done with it.”

Henry frowned. “So that means you can’t have any more grapes in your paintings?”

“I can,” Koren replied, “they just can’t be the main subject.”

“I had no idea he made all these rules,” Henry said. “At first I thought it was rather charming that Corbin seemed to be trying to bring you back to your artistic roots, but he’s imposed quite a set of rules on you.”

“He was a demanding teacher,” Koren said. “He pushed, and pushed, and then he pushed a little more. This bullshit with the canvases—he did that my second summer here.” He was secretly grateful that Corbin had stopped at 30x40; during that summer, Corbin had taught him how to make his own canvas—and then made him make one that was ten feet long and six feet high. It had taken Koren most of a month to finish the painting of the Brandywine River that he’d done on it. He told Henry about the almost-mural.

Henry’s eyes widened. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen a painting that large outside a museum,” he said. “Do you still have it? I think I’ve seen all your paintings that are here, and there’s nothing that size.”

Koren shook his head. “My aunt has it,” he said. Corinne had fallen in love with the painting when she’d driven to River’s Flow to pick up Koren, and it now hung in her mansion’s billiard room.

“I think it’s wonderful that she and Corbin were so supportive of your art,” Henry said. “By the way, I’ve asked Morris to help me appropriately price your work that’s in the tasting room. He said he’s quite interested in seeing how quickly they start selling. He also said he wants to put a few pieces in his gallery, saying that if you didn’t care about it, he would care about getting his forty percent.”

Koren snorted. “So who gets the forty percent here? You?”

Henry waved his hands. “No, no—first of all, the commission here is thirty percent, and it is winery revenue, just like the glassware and other local-made items that are sold in the tasting room. We actually make a decent amount of money on art and gift sales, enough that I’d successfully held Corbin off from wanting to host weddings here.”

“Oh god, no,” Koren said, not bothering to suppress a shudder.

“I completely agree,” Henry said, “although we shouldn’t say no if someone asks. Wineries are very popular wedding spots these days, and there is definitely money to be made there. I think Corbin liked the romantic notion of it, and never thought about the chaos that can ensue during an event like that.”

Koren glanced over at Henry. “I take it you did weddings at some of the other places you worked.”

Henry nodded. “One of the things I love about working here is that first and foremost, it is a _winery._ Yes, we have live music once or twice a month, and the occasional Art Night to support local artists, but we’re not trying to be some big commercial destination. River’s Flow is a place to come and relax, and enjoy some superb wine.”

“I agree,” Koren said. “I wouldn’t want this place overrun with Bridezillas.” He took the canvas off the easel and handed it to Henry. “Hold this for a second, will you?” He then broke down the easel and folded it back up.

Henry gingerly took the still-wet painting and smiled at him. “I’m glad we can agree on that. Corbin, I fear, would have done it for sheer amusement.” When Koren took the canvas back he continued, “Do you think you could come up to the tasting room in about a half hour? I would like to go over the wines with you and Joe, so that you two can be better prepared to help Gordon and me this weekend.”

“Yeah, I can do that,” Koren said, “but let’s do an hour—I want to put this stuff away and grab a shower.” He watched Henry leave, and then he hiked back to the house, where Dragon welcomed him enthusiastically. He propped the painting on the fireplace mantel and then he headed up to get out of his sweaty clothes and into the shower.


	9. Chapter 9

Henry finished writing a list of wines he needed and handed the slip of paper to Joe. “If you could bring these cases up for me I would appreciate it. Koren should be here any minute, so come sit at the counter when you’ve brought up the last case.”

“Sure,” Joe replied, and he spent the next few minutes carrying cases of wine up from the back storeroom. When he went back down for the last case, he lingered a bit to admire the wine cellar.

It was seriously cool down here—and not just in temperature. As nice as the tasting room was, the ‘Event Room’ in the main cellar was his favorite room in the old barn. The cellars had the same stone walls as the rest of the building, but the floors were poured concrete, and in the main room the floor was embedded with a stone mosaic of grapes and leaves. Unlike the high, vaulted ceiling of the tasting room, the downstairs ceilings were wide boards of warm, golden oak, cut across every so many feet by thick beams of the same wood. A large banquet table took up most of the space in the main room, with a smaller version of the tasting bar over in the corner. Most of the walls were obscured by stacks of wine barrels that reached the ceiling, and Joe knew several bar owners who would kill for the light fixture in the middle of the room—a large, square frame filled with dozens of upside-down wine glasses. Whenever he turned on the switch the light sparkled and danced over the curves of the glasses.

He looked forward to being down here when it was full of people.

The two storage rooms in the back were more utilitarian, used for storing the cases of wine as well as supplies for the tasting room above. Henry had everything organized really well, so Joe had quickly learned where everything was kept. He found the last wine on the list and carried the case upstairs.

At the top of the stairs he heard a voice that wasn’t Henry’s or Gordon’s. _Must be the new boss-man,_ he thought. Or maybe-boss; Henry had told him a little bit about the whole ‘live here and paint’ thing that was a condition of Koren Van Sant’s inheritance, and Koren’s reluctance to commit to keeping the property. 

Joe hoped the guy would come around, because even though he’d only been here a week, he really wanted to keep working at River’s Flow.

He didn’t know what he was expecting the new owner to look like, but he had definitely _not_ expected someone close to his own age, and gorgeous to boot. As Joe set the case of wine on the counter he was aware of the man’s cool, appraising gaze.

“Koren, this is Joe Sandler,” Henry said. “He started here last week, and once he’s up to speed he’ll be in charge of the tasting room. Joe, this is Koren Van Sant.”

Joe noticed Henry didn’t introduce Koren as the owner—it was probably a sore subject. 

He stuck out a hand. “Good to meet you,” he said. As Koren shook his hand and muttered a response, he noticed some flecks of green on Koren’s damp, golden-blond bangs. “Dude, you’ve got paint in your hair.”

“Shit,” Koren said, “I thought I got it all out. Where?”

Joe pointed at an area above his own right eyebrow.

“I should’ve cut my hair before I came here,” Koren groused as he headed over to the bathroom. Joe and Henry exchanged an amused look, and Henry quickly raised a hand to hide his smile before Koren came back.

“Have a seat, both of you,” Henry said. 

Joe slid onto the stool next to Koren’s, and he couldn’t help the amused snort that escaped him when Koren scooted his stool a little further away. “Don’t worry, I don’t bite,” Joe said, pausing a second before he said, “…hard.”

Koren rolled his eyes. “You’re so original.”

Henry coughed to get their attention, and then he placed two narrow sheets of paper in front of them. “This is our wine list,” he said. “I also wrote how to pronounce the wines above each one.”

Joe picked up the sheet. “REES-ling,” he said, looking at the first wine on the list.

“That’s the wine Corbin grew in the original vineyard,” Koren said, and he fished a pair of wire-rimmed reading glasses out of his teeshirt pocket and put them on. He pointed at a wine further down the list. “So he did plant the Cabernet Franc. He was just joking about it the second summer I was here.”

“Yes,” Henry said, “they are the second oldest vines here.” He tapped his copy of the list. “We have ten wines; five reds, four whites, and a rose. Tastings are five dollars for Red or White only, or customers can taste all ten for ten dollars. If they do a full tasting, they get to keep the glass.”

Joe scribbled the prices down on his sheet.

“When Corbin was still with us, we poured wine into a regular size glass one at a time, and then talked a little about the wine. I still like to do that if the room is not too busy, but when the room is full we use these trays and small taster glasses.” Henry set a narrow, foot-long wooden board onto the table; it had five circular wells carved into it for the glasses, and the names of each wine and their characteristics were laser-etched in front of each well.

Joe scanned a few of the descriptions. “So this way they can still get information about the wine, but we’re not holding up the line,” he said. “Kind of self-service.”

“Exactly,” Henry said. “It can get extremely busy in here on the weekends, and while I prefer to give customers more personal attention, I don’t want anyone leaving because of having to wait too long.” He indicated the wine names. “This also makes it easier for you to pour the wines and set them in the correct order.”

“Correct order?” Koren asked. “I didn’t know there was a wrong way to drink wine.”

Henry waved his hands. “No, no, there isn’t a ‘wrong’ way, but when you’re tasting a larger number of wines you will get more out of it taste-wise if you go from white to red, and within each of those, from dry to sweet. We don’t currently have any dessert wines, but they would be the very last.”

“And we have to make sure we put the right wine with the right name,” Joe said, remembering how he had almost mixed up the whites a few times the previous Saturday.

Henry nodded vigorously. “Absolutely.” He set two glasses in front of them, and reached behind the counter for a bottle of wine. “I’m going to treat this like a proper tasting, and also give you some instruction along the way. So, I will first tell you what wine I am pouring, and then give you an idea of what you might taste when you drink it. This is our Riesling.” He poured a small amount into each glass. “It’s our oldest vintage, with notes of apricot and peach, and it’s a smooth semi-dry with a nice kiss of sweetness at the end.”

“That’s it?” Koren was eyeing the mouthful or two of wine that rippled at the bottom of his glass.

“Yes, this is a pretty standard tasting amount.” Henry pointed at the bottle’s opening. “You won’t have to worry about how much to pour, we usually put in a special insert that dispenses just the right amount. Go ahead and drink—but don’t down it like a shot! Take a few mouthfuls and _taste_ it, let it linger in your mouth.” 

Joe wasn’t surprised at the amount, since he’d spent most of the previous weekend pouring wine into way too many of those small taster glasses. He glanced at Koren, who was already tasting his wine. He lifted his glass to his lips and took a sip.

It was pretty good! Joe hadn’t had much wine before, and what he had tried in the past had either been sickeningly sweet or so dry that it would pucker his mouth. This stuff was light and just a tiny bit sweet. “Hunh,” he said, putting down the empty glass, “I could taste all those things you were talking about.”

Koren’s eyes were closed, and the expression on his face told Joe that he had probably just gone down memory lane.

“It’s even better than I remember,” Koren said softly.

“That’s because of Gordon,” Henry said. He turned to Joe. “See what I mean about telling you about the wine? If I’d just poured it and said nothing, you would probably still enjoy it, but experiencing those flavors and understanding what they are adds to your enjoyment. Let’s move on to the Chardonnay…”

They tasted the remaining white wines, and the one rose, and Joe made notes about how Henry talked about them. It was funny how they were all ‘white wine,’ but they all tasted so different! There were only two of them that he really wasn’t all that keen on.

“Now the reds,” Henry said. “Always rinse out the glass first. Here is our Cabernet Franc, it’s dry, but very lush with hints of black pepper and currant.”

Joe took a mouthful and had to force himself to swallow it. Wow, that was way different from the white wine! He glanced over at Koren, who actually looked kind of blissed out.

“Oh my God,” Koren said.

“You liked that?” Joe asked him. “Here, you can have the rest of mine.” He laughed when Koren slid his glass over.

Henry smiled. “Everyone likes different things,” he said. “It’s not a job requirement that you like all the wines.”

“What do I do, though, when there’s one I don’t like?” Joe emptied his glass into Koren’s.

“Just tell people about it,” Henry said. “You can give the tasting notes, and maybe try to find at least one thing about the wine that tasted good to you. If someone asks you if you like it, you can be honest and say you prefer sweeter wines, or whites, or whatever.”

“So far I definitely like whites better,” Joe said.

“More for me,” Koren said.

“What’s _your_ favorite, Henry?” Joe asked.

“The Chardonnay is my favorite white,” Henry replied, “and for red, I have to say I’m very partial to the Chambourcin.” He poured some of that wine into their glasses.

Joe managed to finish the glass, but it was still too strong for him. The next wine, the blend, was a little better, but it wasn’t anything that Joe would want to drink at home. The next wine, though, got his attention.

“Hey!” he said, tapping at the glass, “this one was really good! Way better than those other two.”

“I thought you might like the Gamay better,” Henry said. “It’s much lighter-bodied, and is soft in its fruitiness.”

“I prefer the Cab Franc,” Koren said, “but this isn’t too bad.”

“More for me, man.” Joe said, and he laughed.

The last wine, the Concord, was a little too sweet, but still drinkable. Joe laughed again when Koren made a face and dumped the rest of his glass into Joe’s.

Henry started re-corking the bottles. “Over the next couple of weeks I want you both to keep tasting the wines now and then, so that you get to know them. This way if a customer asks for dry wines, you know what to recommend, same with the sweet. For instance, Joe, because you tasted all the reds, if a customer comments that the Cab or the Chambourcin are too dry, you can suggest the Gamay to them. Or if the Vidal Blanc is too sweet a white, go down a notch and suggest the Chardonnay or Riesling.”

“Are we done?” Koren asked. 

“Yes,” Henry replied as Koren rose from his stool. “It would probably help you to be here tomorrow night or Friday, that way you can have a ‘dress rehearsal’ of sorts before Saturday. Thursday is the quietest.”

“I’ll do tomorrow night,” Koren said. He glanced at his watch. “That first painting went quicker than I expected, so I’ll work on painting those other grapes for you over the next couple of days. Better for me to do it now while I can keep the style consistent. I’ll go get a pack of 8x10 canvases from the craft store, and I think I can do one more today.”

Henry looked like he’d been given an early Christmas present. “Thank you so much, Koren,” he said. “The labels are going to be beautiful. I’ll have to look up who designed the old ones.”

“No need,” Koren said. “I can do the design—my focus at college was branding and packaging.” He traced a finger over the logo on the wine glass. “Corbin did this logo, didn’t he?”

“Yes.”

“I thought so.” Koren headed for the patio door, where he lifted a hand in farewell. “See you tomorrow night,” he said.

Joe watched him leave, and when he glanced back at Henry he saw that Henry had been watching him. “Not the friendliest guy in the world,” he said.

“No,” Henry said, “although we have to keep in mind that he’s probably going through a lot right now. I think the inheritance came as a shock, and I imagine that being forced to live here with a lot of old memories is hard for him.”

Joe twirled the stem of his glass. “Yeah, I can see that. Grief does funny things to people, sometimes.” He slid the glass toward Henry. “Any chance of getting a little more of that ‘GAH-May?’”

Henry smiled, and reached for the bottle. “Well done,” he said, and he filled the glass a little over half way with the ruby-colored wine. “I think you’re going to do just fine in here.”

“I’m glad we’re able to go over all this stuff when the room is closed,” Joe said. “Last weekend, it was all I could do to keep up with making all the tasting trays. And let me tell you, Gordon moved faster than any waiter I’ve ever worked with.”

Henry poured himself a smaller serving of the Chambourcin. “Poor Gordon. He’s much happier out in the fields.”

“Where are _you_ happier?”

“Among the tanks and barrels,” Henry said. “I much prefer making wine than selling it.”

Joe raised the glass to him. “You make pretty good wine.”

Henry touched it with his. “Thank you. Gordon grows a pretty good grape.”

Joe leaned back in the high-backed bar stool. “It seems kind of… naughty, drinking wine in the middle of the day. I’ve already got a decent buzz going.”

“One of the benefits of the job,” Henry said, sipping his wine. 

“I hope Koren ends up keeping the place,” Joe said. “I like it here.”

“Oh God, so do I,” Henry said. “I’m glad you like it here so far.”

“What’s not to like?” Joe took a generous drink of his wine. “The place is beautiful, the pay is great, and the boss is very easy on the eyes.” 

“Koren is rather breathtaking, isn’t he?”

“I wasn’t talking about Koren.” Joe smiled when he saw a splash of pink on Henry’s cheeks.

“Are you… flirting with me, Joe?” Henry asked, his gaze fixed firmly on his glass.

Joe’s smile widened. Maybe it was all the wine, but yes, he was flirting with his stunner of a boss. Koren might be the one who looked like a supermodel, but Henry was right up there, especially with those beautiful green eyes. “Depends,” he said.

“On what?” Henry looked squarely at him.

“On whether you mind being flirted with.” Joe swirled the wine in his glass. “If you mind, then I’m totally not flirting with you and this conversation never happened.” He drank the last mouthful.

“And… if I don’t mind?”

Joe grinned. “Then I am absolutely flirting with you.”

“I think I need to cut you off,” Henry said, “you’ve obviously had too much to drink.” He turned to put the bottles away.

Joe was relieved that Henry’s tone was teasing, not dismissive, and as he watched Henry put the bottles away Joe noticed the deepening blush on Henry’s cheeks, and the slight tremor in Henry’s hands.

Yeah, he liked it here, all right.


	10. Chapter 10

Koren was glad that he didn’t have to put in too many hours in the tasting room—there were way too many people there for his comfort level.

Every table was filled, both inside the room and outside on the flagstone patio, and the counter had a solid line of patrons standing in front of it, all sipping and chattering and exchanging glasses to share a sip of wine. There were even people out on the barn’s lawn, sprawled on blankets, drinking wine and enjoying a leisurely afternoon.

“Is it like this every Saturday?” he asked Henry as he took a tray of three tasting flights.

“Every nice Saturday, yes,” Henry replied. He cast a critical eye over Koren’s attire. “It looks like I got your shirt size right. It fits well?”

Koren fingered the collar of the burgundy shirt he wore. “A little tight in the neck, but otherwise it’s fine. I told you though, I brought a dress shirt and tie with me.”

“Think of it as a uniform,” Henry said, and he indicated his own shirt of the same color. “People know immediately that we work here, and it’s nicer than teeshirts and name tags.”

Koren snorted at the idea of Henry wearing a teeshirt, much less a name tag. He had to admit that it was a good idea. As he carried the tray to the table of waiting patrons, he saw Joe at the counter in his shirt, his tie loosened as he poured wine and flirted with a group of giggling young women, and then he noticed Gordon delivering plates filled with sliced cheese and salami to another table. Gordon’s tie was completely missing and the top two buttons of his shirt were undone.

Burgundy looked good on him, Koren decided. So did the two undone buttons.

Gordon looked up at that moment, and his gaze flicked over Koren’s shirt. Then their eyes met, and Gordon smiled at him, an undeniable gleam of appreciation in his honey-brown eyes, before he returned his attention to the customers at his table.

Koren looked away, and hastily set the wooden plaques on the table. He remembered Henry’s earlier admonition to thank the patrons for their patience.

“No problem,” one of the men said. “We know you’ve been short-handed.”

“We were so sorry to hear about Mr. Sanderson’s passing,” the woman next to him said. “You guys are still going to keep the winery going, I hope? River’s Flow is our favorite wine, and we love coming here.” The rest of their party agreed with her.

Koren heard similar sentiments expressed throughout the busy afternoon. Apparently, there were a lot of people who were considered regulars, who came to enjoy a bottle of wine, eat some snacks, and then take more wine home with them. Almost everyone in the room had been to the winery before, and Koren overheard Henry and Gordon reassuring people that everything was still running smoothly.

The last thing they needed was for customers to feel uncertain about the winery’s future, so when asked, Koren told them that the new owner was going to keep everything as it was.

It wasn’t precisely a lie, but it made Koren wonder what would happen if he ended up selling the place. Would a new owner keep Henry and Gordon? He had to admit Joe was a natural salesman, and would probably be asked to stay on, but what about the other two? He asked Henry about it a few hours later, after they closed up, while they loaded up the dishwashers for their final loads.

“I would probably be safe,” Henry said while he arranged glasses in the racks, “at least for awhile. A new owner won’t want to risk having the wine taste too different, especially since we’ve won so many awards. And of course that’s assuming that I would like them enough to want to stay.” He nodded over at Gordon, who was wiping down tables with Joe. “I worry about Gordon, though. He’s in a bit of a unique situation; living and working on a farm when he was younger gave him invaluable experience with growing grapes, and his intuition and ‘nose’ is almost uncanny. But he’s only twenty-two, and has no formal education beyond high school. No vineyard would hire him without a degree.”

 _Shit._ Not what Koren wanted to hear.

“Corbin told me that Gordon used to work at his grandfather’s farm,” Henry continued, “selling fruit and vegetables that he and his grandfather grew, and Corbin had long been impressed with the the quality of their produce, as well as Gordon’s ability to discern various levels of ripeness.” 

“We used to go to their farm stand on Saturdays whenever I was here,” Koren said. “Gordon was a kid… I forgot his name, but I remember him selling fruit to us, and Corbin used to joke he was going to hire him to make his grapes grow better.” 

Henry closed the doors on the dishwashers and started them up. “When Gordon’s grandfather sold his farm and moved to Arizona, Corbin offered Gordon a job here. I’ve worked at several wineries, and I must say that Gordon has better instincts than people twice his age, and with twice his education. But his age and lack of a degree could be a problem, if a new owner didn’t realize how lucky they were to have him.”

Koren didn’t know what to say to that, and he was saved from replying when Joe and Gordon came over to join them at the counter.

“Man, that was nuts!” Joe said, sliding onto one of the counter’s high stools. “Today was busier than both days last weekend. I don’t know how you and Gordon managed all this by yourselves.”

“It was tough,” Gordon said as he hauled himself up onto the stool next to Joe, slapping his folded apron on the counter. “But fortunately people have been nice about waiting. I’m glad you guys were here today, and you both did a great job!”

“I agree,” Henry said, and he retrieved a cash-filled jar from behind the counter and set it down. “Shall we see how well we’re eating tonight?” He emptied the jar’s contents onto the counter.

“We pool what tips we get,” Gordon explained as he transferred money from his apron to the pile on the table, “and then we use it to buy ourselves dinner, ‘cause nobody wants to cook after a day like this.”

Koren added the money he’d received, and Joe plunked down a sizable wad of bills.

“Sounds like a fun idea,” Joe said. “I can’t see us making the same kind of tips that we would at a restaurant or bar.”

“Exactly,” Henry said, “although you are welcome to keep your portion if you want.” He swiftly stacked the bills in denomination order and began counting.

“Nah,” Joe said. “I’m good—you guys are paying me more than I would make bartending, so I’ll be able to give my brother some rent money at the end of the month, and chip in for groceries too.” He grinned. “Feels good to know I can do that.”

Gordon smiled at him, and then looked at Henry. “Well? Looks like more than pizza or Chinese to me.”

“Definitely more than that,” Henry replied. “We have enough to have a nice meal at the steakhouse, if we want. And probably have a little left over to keep in the kitty.”

“Oooh, steak,” Gordon said in an awe-struck tone. “I want steak. And a beer. After a day like this, I want beer.”

Joe laughed. “Right there with you, kid.” He ruffled Gordon’s hair. “You old enough for a beer?”

“I’m twenty-two! Twenty-three in April.”

“Dude, are you trying to say you’re ‘twenty-two and a half?’ I thought only kids did that.”

As the other two bickered about Gordon’s age, Henry turned to Koren. “Will you join us?”

It didn’t take long for Koren to decide. “Sure,” he said, “but I’m changing my shirt first. There’s no way I’m being seen in public with us all dressed alike.”


	11. Chapter 11

Gordon sank back against the padded leather back of the booth seat and regarded his companions as he enjoyed his beer, the air conditioning, and actually sitting for the first time in at least six hours.

He hadn’t been to the restaurant since Corbin died, and while it felt a little strange to be eating here without the old man with them, Gordon was glad that Koren had come with them. It was especially nice to ride in Koren’s convertible, even though he and Joe had to sit in the back.

A good day, all around. Busy, yeah, but all the customers had been cool about it and while Henry was the one who tallied the sales, Gordon knew they’d sold a lot of wine. Joe was a charmer, and had easily sold the lion’s share, but Koren hadn’t been far behind, despite an awkwardness that Gordon found adorable. The female customers had clearly taken a shine to the two new guys, which Gordon thought was hysterical, since he was pretty sure that neither one of them was straight. Over the past two weeks Gordon had caught Joe looking at Henry a few times with definite interest—and he would bet money that Henry was interested right back. 

Good for Henry, he thought. His friend always seemed so self-contained, so it was fun to watch Joe chipping away at Henry’s wall of polite reserve.

While they ate their excellent steaks Gordon tried not to stare at Koren too much. Damn, it was hard, because the white button-down Koren had changed into was all kinds of sexy, and his jeans were just the right amount of snug. And then there was the way the light from the wall lamp made Koren’s hair glow like a glass of chardonnay held up in the sunlight. Gordon snorted at the thought, and he reached for his beer—it was pretty bad when he was seeing wine in people’s hair.

But it really did look like a deep, golden chardonnay.

Gordon wondered if it felt as silky as it looked.

 _Stop it now,_ he told himself. But the thought lingered, and it joined with the other thoughts to create a delicious warmth in his belly, one that had nothing to do with two beers and everything to do with the gorgeous man who sat next to him. There was warmth along the side of his leg, too, where Koren’s thigh brushed against his.

It didn’t escape Gordon’s notice that the booth wasn’t _that_ narrow. And maybe he hadn’t imagined seeing Koren checking him out in the tasting room.

Dinner was followed by dessert, and while Gordon thoroughly enjoyed his lemon tart he found himself smothering a yawn with every other bite.

“We keeping you up, old man?” Joe teased him. “It’s not even ten o’clock.”He elbowed Henry, who had yawned in sympathy. “You, too?”

“Sorry,” Gordon said, “I’m usually in bed by now.”

“We were out in the vineyard at seven this morning,” Henry said. “There were some things we needed to get done before we opened the tasting room for the day.”

“And we have to do it again tomorrow,” Gordon added, and then he yawned again. 

“We may as well head back,” Koren said. “I’m tired, too.”

“You people are no fun.”

Henry signaled for the check.

Gordon ended up in the back again for the ride to River’s Flow, but he didn’t mind. The heat of the day had eased off, and the breeze that ruffled his hair kept him from dozing off too much. He slouched in the seat, cradling his arms behind his head, and gazed at the stars as the car wound along the dark, narrow road. 

The crunch of gravel told him they had arrived back at the vineyard, and when the car rolled to a stop next to the barn Gordon stretched and waited for Henry to get out of the car before he climbed out of the back seat. The security lights at the top of the barn bathed them in cool, white light, and made their shadows stretch out down the road.

“Tonight was fun!” he said. “I bet we’re going to have a lot of nice Saturday dinners.”

“Yeah, but you two are lightweights,” Joe said as he got out of the car. “We need to have a good drinking night.”

“After harvest, perhaps,” Henry said. “Although it’ll get easier when you’re fully trained and able to take on more duties.”

Gordon noticed he didn’t mention Koren helping more. Probably a good idea—they had learned the hard way not to push him too much. “We could do sushi next week,” he said. “I bet we make enough in the jar to get one of those big boats!”

“Sushi sounds good,” Henry said. “Steak would get boring if we had it all the time.” He yawned, apologizing as he covered his mouth. “Oh my goodness, I need to get to bed. Gordon, what should we check first?”

Gordon thought about the grapes he had checked earlier in the day. “We’re pretty good, actually - the only one I think is close to ready is the Riesling. We could check the Chardonnay too, if you wanted, but I think that one’s a good month away.”

“I trust your judgment,” Henry said, “and a sleep-in would be lovely. I’ll meet you at the vines at ten, and you two—” he gestured to Koren and Joe “—can meet us here at eleven-thirty. Gentlemen, I’ll see you all in the morning.”

Gordon waved when Henry got into his car and left, and he waved again when Joe straddled his motorcycle and brought it to noisy life.

“See you later, losers, I’m gonna go shoot some pool,” Joe called over, and gravel scattered as he rode away.

“You need a ride home?”

Gordon blinked and looked over at Koren, who still sat in the driver’s seat. “Huh?”

Koren waved in the vicinity of the old stables. “I didn’t see your Jeep here. I was actually expecting you to leave with Henry.”

“Oh!” Gordon shook his head. “That’s okay, I can walk.”

“You can walk home?”

“Yeah,” Gordon said, “I live in the old spring house at the edge of the property.”

Koren frowned at him. “The spring house? But that was practically a ruin.”

“Not any more,” Gordon said. “Corbin and I fixed it up, and I’ve been living there ever since.” He scuffed his shoe in the gravel. “I didn’t know if you knew, but he gave it to me… in his will.”

“Morris told me someone had been given the westernmost tip, a couple of acres where the stream cuts across the property.”

“Yup, that’s me,” Gordon said. “It was really nice of Corbin to do that.” Owning those few acres and the house on it meant a lot to Gordon; it meant that no matter what happened with the winery and vineyard, thanks to Corbin he now had a place to call his own.

“Get in the car,” Koren said.

“What?”

“You’re swaying on your feet,” Koren said. “I bet you were sleeping in the back.”

“No, I wasn’t!” Gordon protested, and ruined the effect of the protest by yawning loudly. “Well, maybe I rested my eyes a little.”

Koren snorted. “Get in, I’ll drive you over there.”

Gordon got back in the car, this time in the front, and while Koren drove he watched Koren’s hand move the gearshift as he smoothly shifted gears. “Is this a six-speed?” he asked, trying to distract himself from the way Koren’s long, thin fingers seemed to lightly caress the wooden handle.

“Seven-speed,” Koren said.

 _That_ distracted him. “No way! Seven?” Gordon eyed the car with new respect. “I bet it can go super fast.”

There was a flash of white in the semi-dark as Koren grinned at him. “Want to find out?”

“Fuck yeah,” Gordon said, all thoughts of going right to bed forgotten. “Just past River’s Flow, if you make the first right the road goes super straight for miles, and most of it goes right through one of the preserves.” He smiled when Koren raised an eyebrow. “Yeah, I might have done some dragging when I was younger. We all did, and that road’s the best place to do it—almost no houses, so no grumpy old people to call the cops on you.”

The turn in question came up soon enough, and once they’d made the turn Koren floored the gas pedal, his right hand a blur on the gearshift, and Gordon fell back against his seat, gasping at how fast the car accelerated. “Holy shit!” he shouted over the roar of the car’s engine, “what was that, ten seconds to sixty?” He glanced at the speedometer; they were already doing sixty—no, eighty!

“Six seconds,” Koren shouted back.

Gordon laughed, and he hung on to the dash as they sped down the road. He pointed out a spot ahead where Koren would have to slow down, and at the bend in the road Koren turned the car around and gunned it again.

At one point in the short drive they went over a hundred miles an hour, and Gordon couldn’t help but laugh again at the exhilaration he felt from going so fast. The trees seemed to rush by, and the streetlights flashed as they sped past. He watched the wind make a mess of Koren’s hair, and knew it was doing the same to his own. 

All too soon, they had to slow down again, and Koren turned back onto the road that led toward River’s Flow, this time heading to the small, dirt road that led to the old spring house.

Gordon saw the single light shining from above his door, and he was almost disappointed to be back home.

Koren pulled up next to Gordon’s old Jeep, and put the car in park.

“Thanks for the ride,” Gordon said. “And for the _ride_.” He patted the car’s dash. “That was fun! I’ve never gone that fast in a car.”

“My aunt would kill me if she caught me driving it like that,” Koren said. “But you’re right, it was fun.”

“I won’t tell,” Gordon said. They sat there a moment, looking at each other, and Koren’s gaze briefly dropped to Gordon’s mouth.

Time stretched out as Gordon felt an odd excitement come over him… it was almost like they had just gotten back from a date, and at any moment Koren would lean over and kiss him.

Then Koren blinked and looked away, and time snapped back to normal.

“Thanks again,” Gordon said as he got out of the car.

“No problem,” Koren replied. “See you tomorrow.”

“See you.” Gordon waved as Koren pulled away, and then he took a deep breath and let it out, trying to calm the butterflies that remained in his belly. He let himself into the house, and after he unlaced his boots and kicked them off, he clomped up the stairs, pulled off his clothes, and crawled into bed, clad only in his boxers.

As tired as he was, sleep remained at bay, and Gordon rolled onto his back and stared at the wooden beams of his ceiling.

It was strange, getting to know the adult version of his teenage fantasies.

He had been eleven when he’d first met the beautiful boy who came with Corbin to buy produce at his grandfather’s farm stand. His grandmother used to tease Gordon that he liked pretty things, and Gordon supposed she was right—he remembered thinking how pretty the boy was. Not in a sexual way, that came a few summers later, when he was thirteen; he couldn’t wait for Saturday mornings, just to see Koren again, to talk with him, to sneak him a piece of fruit and maybe get a smile in return. 

And then the summer after that, he wasn’t there.

_Where’s your son, Mr. Corbin?_

_He’s away at college, Gordon, he found a summer job up in New York._

Now after all those years away, Koren was back at River’s Flow, and his beauty still took Gordon’s breath away. But besides Koren’s looks, the more time Gordon spent with him, the more he _liked_ him. Yes, he could be a grumpy ass at times, but Gordon was starting to catch glimpses of a quick, creative mind and a snarky sense of humor that he found very appealing.

And maybe, just maybe, Gordon thought, Koren had noticed he wasn’t a kid any more.


	12. Chapter 12

“Don’t forget your hat, Korey!”

Koren turned around just in time to have a rolled-up canvas hat smack him in the chest. He managed to grasp it before it fell to the ground.

“Corinne will have my hide if anything happens to that porcelain complexion of yours,” Corbin said. “And don’t forget sunblock.”

Koren rolled his eyes. “Yes, Mom,” he said, and he stowed the hat under the bungee cord that held all his painting gear together.

Corbin turned to Morris, who was setting out his carving tools next to a large tree trunk that sat on a set of special stands. “Isn’t it wonderful? His second summer with us, and he’s already comfortable enough to be insolent.”

“It’s easy to be insolent with you,” Morris said, and he winked at Koren. “Stop mothering the boy and let him go.” He put on safety goggles and reached for a large chain saw.

“All right, all right,” Corbin said, and he picked up his camera bag. “Let’s go, Korey, before he starts that dreadful saw; there’s no point in picking any spots near here, it’ll be too noisy.”

Morris smiled, and held up a pair of earplugs. “This is my favorite part,” he said to Koren, “I can’t hear him nattering on.”

“Momo, you’re so mean.”

Koren laughed as they hiked up the dirt road toward the barn. “Why do you call him that?” he asked Corbin.

“A lot of people call him ‘Mo’ for short, but it’s more fun to annoy him and call him ‘Momo,’” Corbin said, and they both winced at the loud _braaap_ of the chainsaw. “It’s a good thing you and I aren’t working by the river this morning. See you back at the house for supper!” He waved a friendly farewell and headed off to one of the eastern pastures, Dragon prancing happily behind him.

Koren glanced at his watch; he had a good six hours to paint, since weekend dinners at River’s Flow were usually in the late afternoon. They were leisurely affairs that usually involved the grill, farm-fresh vegetables bought that morning at Sonnier’s farm stand, and spending the rest of the day relaxing by the river’s edge. He liked Saturdays the best, since there wasn’t the need for Morris to get back home, like he did on Sunday nights.

The two old men were quite a pair, he decided; Morris was grumpy where Corbin was silly, but their affection toward each other was obvious. Koren had a strong suspicion that Morris only pretended to stay in the other guest room when he was there on the weekends. He and Corbin reminded Koren of his aunt and her assistant—Jerry wasn’t grumpy like Morris was sometimes, but he was always the serious one, while his aunt was anything but serious.

He also suspected that Aunt Corinne and Jerry had the same sort of ‘friends-with-benefits’ thing going on, but he tried not to think about that too much.

His goal for the morning was to find something interesting to paint at either the big stone barn or the stable that stood opposite. He’d put off the area for ages, mostly since Corbin had labeled them as ‘boring’ during his first visit to River’s Flow. But then he realized that there was really nothing intrinsically boring about the buildings, just the way the students had chosen to paint them. He walked around both buildings before deciding on a close-up section of the barn, where weathered wood met the stone wall, and a partially fallen board revealed an empty bird’s nest. Painting the stone would give him an excuse to use the palette knife, so Koren set up his easel—and put the hat on, because Corbin had a habit of visiting him, whether he noticed it or not—and began painting.

Had it really only been a year since he’d started coming here? 

Last year, his first weekend had been two weeks after the class trip in May, and for the rest of the school year, Koren had spent all week looking forward to the two days he stayed with Corbin and Morris. When summer vacation had started, Corbin had extended the invitation for him to stay at River’s Flow for the summer.

The only reason Koren had waited a few moments before accepting was that he didn’t want to seem too eager.

It had been a glorious summer. His days were filled with painting, as well as swimming or canoeing in the river, and at night he slept in a room that Corbin had declared was his, lulled to sleep by the gentle waters of the Brandywine. 

But all too soon, the summer had flown by, and Koren went back home to get ready to go back to school, to start his junior year.

He’d had a few visits during the school year, at Christmas and Spring break, and then at the end of the last semester Koren had received the invitation to spend a second summer at the farm.

This time, Koren didn’t waste any time accepting. River’s Flow—and the crazy old man who lived there—had quickly become more of a home to him than than his aunt’s house. 

“Yoo hoo!” Corbin’s call startled Koren out of his reverie, as did the cold nose that pushed into his free hand.

“Hi Dragon,” Koren said, and he scratched behind a floppy white ear.

“Very nice,” Corbin said as he approached Koren’s easel. “I was wondering when you were going to do something with the barn, I was afraid that I’d scared you off it!” He peered closer at the canvas. “I like that you zoomed in so close. You have a nice contrast of textures here, with the faced stone, the peeling paint of the wood, and the twigs and branches in the nest.” He walked over to the spot that Koren had chosen as a subject, inspecting the damaged area, and then he sighed. “I’m going to have to do something with this old barn soon, some of this wood is rotting.”

“You’re not going to tear it down, are you?” Koren asked, alarmed at the thought. He kind of liked the barn, even though Corbin had called it boring.

“Oh heavens, no!” Corbin said. “But it will need some work to keep it safe.” He glanced over at the stable. “The stable will probably need work too, as well as the spring house near my little vineyard. They’re all almost two hundred years old, it’s not surprising that they need repair. The last time these had any real attention was when my father bred racehorses, back in the fifties when harness racing was all the rage in this area.” His expression was wistful as he gazed up at the barn, and then he turned to Koren and smiled. “Let’s go eat, and see what Morris has done with that wood.”

Koren could smell the tantalizing aroma of steak before they even reached the house, and when they got they they found Morris manning the grill.

“About time you two made it back! Koren, go set the table, we’ll eat out here on the patio,” Morris said. “Corbin, where’s that corn you got this morning? I want to cook it on the grill. Get some red wine, too, since we’re having steak. And we should have salad, the boy needs his vegetables.”

“Somebody turns into Bossy Boots when you put him behind the grill,” Corbin murmured as he followed Koren into the kitchen.

Between the two of them they set the table set, shucked the corn and passed it to Morris, and made a large salad. Corbin then poured the wine while Koren fetched a bottle of root beer from the fridge. Morris set down a platter of sizzling steaks and a bowl of freshly grilled corn on the cob, and they all sat down to eat.

“Momo, you have made us a delicious feast!” Corbin said as he cut into his steak. “Perfectly cooked, as always.”

“You really need to stop calling me that, Corbin,” Morris said as he reached for his glass of wine. “One of these days, you’re going to forget yourself and call me ‘Momo’ in public, and then I’m going to have to kill you.”

Koren snorted, and immediately had a violent coughing fit when then root beer he’d just swigged threatened to come through his nose.

“Then you shall be Toad,” Corbin said, “and I shall be Frog, because Frog and Toad are the very best of friends—just like you and I are best friends.”

“When I’m not wanting to kill you,” Morris agreed. “You could just stick with Morris, you know.”

“But that’s no fun,” Corbin said. “Pass the corn, will you?” When Koren handed him the bowl Corbin continued, “I think the produce we’ve been getting from Sonnier’s farm this summer is the best they’ve ever produced. Archie’s got his grandson living there with him now, and I swear that boy can tell exactly when something should be picked.”

“It is wonderfully sweet,” Morris commented while he munched on his corn.

“Archie told me Gordon tells him what fields and rows are ready,” Corbin said. “He said he had thought it was nonsense at first, but every time he went by Gordon’s advice there was a noticeable difference in ripeness. Now Gordon decides what gets picked every day.”

“You’re talking about the kid who waited on us this morning?” Koren asked. He’d seen the boy there, from time to time when they went to the market on Saturday mornings. “What is he, ten?” Koren didn’t remember much beyond a mop of messy hair and a smile that wouldn’t quit; he’d been more focused on the peach the kid had tossed him, it had been the best one he’d ever had.

“Eleven and some change, actually,” Corbin said, and he gave Koren a sideways look. “I would like to take this moment to point out that sixteen-year-olds aren’t the only ones who can display amazing talent. I think I might hire young Gordon to come over and tell me when to harvest my Riesling, and maybe even help me plant some rows of another grape.” He turned to Morris. “Wouldn’t be lovely to grow some Cabernet Franc? We’re not that far from that one vineyard that makes this Cab Franc—” he lifted his glass, “—so I’m sure my soil here is similar.”

“Cabernet Franc, by Sanderson Vineyards,” Morris intoned, and he drank some of his wine.

“Nonsense,” Corbin said, “it will be River’s Flow, right, Korey?”

“Or Frog and Toad,” Koren said, and the rest of their meal was dominated by a heated discussion between Corbin and Morris about just how was Corbin going to have Frog and Toad Vineyards when Frog only had five rows of grapevines.

After dinner they cleared the table, and while Koren did the dishes Corbin and Morris dragged their chairs to the sandy banks of the river and packed their pipes. When Koren came out and saw them sitting there, feet in the water, wine glasses in hand, and smoke drifting lazily above their heads, he ran upstairs to his room and dug out his watercolors and a block of paper, and then he kicked off his shoes and set up his easel on the sand.

“Painting again, Koren?” Morris poked Corbin with his pipe. “Tell me if Frog here is becoming a slave-driver. Did he tell you to do another?”

“No,” Koren said, “I want to paint the two of you, right where you are.”

“Ooh, splendid!” Corbin exclaimed. “I haven’t been a model in years. And I spy your watercolors—excellent choice for that lovely sky that’s developing above us.”

Koren sketched quickly, and then did the sky first, capturing the brilliant pinks and oranges that were starting to dance along the bottom of the wispy clouds that filled the sky, and when he was satisfied he moved on to the way those same colors played off the pale blue of Morris’ shirt, Corbin’s gray-blond hair, and the white of Dragon’s fur. Strokes of green for the woods and grass came next, the warm grays of the old stone house to his left, and the lazy, green-brown waters of the Brandywine to his right. 

He felt the water start to lap at his ankles.

“Are you almost done, Korey? The tide’s coming in, we’re going to have to move our chairs soon or else we’ll have soggy bottoms.” 

“Almost,” he said, dabbing on tiny bits of pigment to create the cacophony of color that was Corbin’s Hawaiian shirt. “If you get wet it’s your shirt’s fault.” A few more brush strokes, and he figured he could stop; he would go back with his ink pen later and add some line work and details. “Okay, I’m done.”

Morris moved the chairs, and brought over another for Koren, while Corbin came over to inspect the painting in the fading light. “Oh, how lovely,” he said. “It has so much peace and beauty in it.” He met Koren’s gaze. “You seem more peaceful, my boy, since you’ve joined us. Are you happy here, at River’s Flow?”

Koren didn’t want to say it out loud, to say _Yes, it’s the first time I can remember feeling anything close to happy_ , and besides, the sudden tightness in his throat at the kindness in Corbin’s gaze made it impossible for Koren to speak. He nodded once, unwilling to reveal more, knowing that Corbin saw it anyway.

Corbin’s smile rivaled the brilliance of the setting sun, which had just peeked from behind the clouds. “Good,” he said, and he linked their arms together and led him over to sit by the river’s edge and watch the sun set.


	13. Chapter 13

Joe surveyed the small Thursday evening crowd as he loaded some glasses onto the dishwasher tray.

He was almost a month into this new gig, and while it was way quieter than he was used to, Joe had to admit he kind of liked working at River’s Flow. Hell, anything was quieter than his bouncer days, and this was way better than most of his bar tending jobs.

He’d quickly discovered that each day had its own character. Thursday had a chill vibe to it; people came in jeans and brought pizza or snacks, some even brought games, and they sat around and drank wine, ate, and generally had a good time. Friday was the closest to Happy Hour; all the young professionals showed up in their ‘ready to party’ gear, and sipped and nibbled before they headed out to their main destination for the night.

Saturdays, at least so far, were complete madness, especially when the weather was nice. Joe could see why there was an ‘all hands on deck’ policy for Saturday; all day long there was a steady stream of people that sometimes filled the tasting room to capacity, and then they’d also have to take care of people out on the patio. Henry was adamant about not making people wait too long, so Joe had to dial back on the chit-chat and just pour, pour, pour.

Sunday was an interesting in-between, still lots of people but a more laid-back atmosphere. 

So far, Joe liked Thursdays the best. People shared whatever food they’d brought, and sometimes Joe would end up playing along with one of the raucous, sometimes raunchy, card games that would get started. At first he’d felt weird about participating, but Henry assured him it was not only allowed, but encouraged.

“Corbin wanted the winery to be a gathering place, for people to enjoy each other’s company while enjoying our wine,” Henry had told him. “Yes, they’re customers, but he always wanted us to treat them like friends. He didn’t want us to be salespeople, he felt the wine should sell itself.”

At first Joe had thought that was the sappiest thing he’d ever heard, but in the ensuing weeks, he’d watched how Henry and Gordon behaved with the customers, and he had to admit, the approach worked. And not having the pressure to sell actually made Joe a better salesman. 

The card crew was ready for some more Gamay, so Joe uncorked two more bottles and set them down in the middle of the table, in between the half-empty pizza boxes.

“We’re almost done this round, Joe,” one of the guys said. “You want in on the next? Pete got the Green Box this week, there’s a couple hundred new cards. ”

“And help us finish the pizza, dude,” another one said.

“Sure,” Joe said, reaching over to nick a slice of pepperoni. 

A few minutes later, out on the patio, the book club ladies were running dry on their Chardonnay, and they also wanted another cheese plate. Joe took care of them and then set up two tasting trays for a young couple who had just come in. Before he returned to the counter he poked his head in the doorway of Henry’s office.

“Need anything?” he asked.

Henry looked up from his laptop. “No, thank you. How is it out there? Not too crazy?”

“Nah, it’s fine.”

Henry smiled. “You seem to be getting on very well with everyone, I’m glad.” He gestured at the laptop. “I’d gotten behind on some of my orders and inventories, so it’s been good to be able to get some work done.” He rose from his chair. “I’m going to go downstairs for a bit and check on the barrels, and then take a case inventory. Just remember to buzz me if you need help, I’ll hear it.”

“I will,” Joe said. “Right now everybody’s just chilling out and enjoying their wine.”

“As they should,” Henry said. “Thank you, Joe, you’ve been such a big help, I really appreciate it.”

Joe felt his cheeks redden at Henry’s effusive praise. “No problem,” he said, and then he followed Henry back into the main room and took his place behind the counter while Henry headed downstairs to the cellars, where they kept the various vintages that were barrel-aged. 

Another couple came in, waving and greeting him by name, and when several of the gamers greeted them Joe realized that Henry was right; River’s Flow was where these people gathered to unwind and enjoy an evening out. Well, really, from what Henry had said it had been the old man’s idea. Joe had never met Corbin, but judging by some of the pictures around the place, and the way people talked about him, it seemed like he had been a pretty cool, laid-back guy.

It was funny how someone as tightly wound as Koren had ended up as the guy’s surrogate son, Joe thought. Probably that whole ‘opposites attract’ thing, except in a father-son version. There was definitely some opposites attracting when it came to Boss-Man and their resident farmboy, though; Joe had caught them checking each other out on more than one occasion, and Gordon had practically knocked him over to sit next to Koren when they went out for sushi the previous Saturday.

Not that Joe had any real desire to sit next to Princess Goldenhair, pretty as he was. Koren was too serious for his taste, and while his ass was mighty fine, it was also mighty tight.

Besides, he’d rather sit next to Henry.

Koren did make a good ciggie-buddy, though, and Joe had a feeling that Koren was the kind of guy who might drive you crazy arguing, but who you could call at three in the morning when you were in trouble. He also seemed like a person who took promises seriously, and while Joe could understand why Henry and Gordon were frustrated that Koren wouldn’t commit to keeping the place, he could also appreciate Koren’s honesty. 

He swept his gaze around the room, making sure nobody needed anything, and when the door-chime jangled Joe looked over to see a guy enter the tasting room and head toward the counter. Joe gave him a minute to get settled and then he ambled over.

“What can I—” Joe stopped himself from finishing the typical bartender’s greeting. That was one habit he was going to have to break! “Welcome to River’s Flow,” he said instead. “Would you like to do a tasting, or just have a nice glass of something?”

“I’ll have a glass of the Chambourcin,” the man said. 

“Sure thing,” Joe said, and he fetched an open bottle and a glass. The guy looked like one of the arty types from around town; long, black shirt, black jeans, black-rimmed glasses that probably cost more than Joe made in a week. He had that kind of deliberately messy look that some of the local artists had, the ‘look at me, I just finished working on my latest masterpiece’ sort of calculated disarray that made Joe want to roll his eyes.

“You’re new here,” the guy said as Joe poured his wine.

“Yeah,” Joe said, “just under a month.”

“You didn’t know Corbin, then.”

“Nope, but I’ve been hearing that he was a pretty cool guy.” Joe noticed the use of a first name. “I’m guessing you did?”

“We were colleagues,” the man said, eyeing the wine as he swirled his glass. “Fellow photographers.”

“Sorry for your loss,” Joe said. He glanced at the framed photographs on the wall. “He did some really nice work.” Joe wasn’t much for photography, but he liked Corbin Sanderson’s stuff; it was interesting and wasn’t all full of itself.

“I heard someone inherited the place.” The guy craned his neck to look around the room. “Are they here?”

Joe shook his head. “Koren’s out working on one of his paintings,” he said, and a glance at the darkening sky made him hope that Koren was done—the dude got grumpy as hell when the day ran away from him. “He’ll be working here with us on Saturday, if you want to stop by to meet him.”

The man looked up at him, a weird glint in his eye. “Koren? Koren Van Sant?”

“That’s him—not too many people with that name, right?”

“And you said he was out painting?”

“Yeah,” Joe said. “It’s part of the will, he has to do so many paintings, and they keep getting bigger. He’s got a couple of weeks left, I think.”

The man laughed. “Ah, Corbin, still trying to make a painter out of the boy.”He took several long swallows of the wine. “So, tell me more about—”

“Good evening, Mr. Janssen,” Henry stepped up next to Joe, seemingly out of nowhere. “To what do we owe the pleasure of your company?”

Joe blinked at Henry’s formal tone. Yeah, he was normally a really polite guy, but this was taking it up a notch. And Henry’s smile was a little… off.

“I understand there is a beneficiary,” the man drawled. “I wanted to pay my respects, and see if we could come to a mutual understanding.”

“I see,” Henry said. “I also see that you felt the need to take advantage of one of my employees in order to gain your understanding. I’m afraid I can’t allow that.”

Joe swore he could feel a drop in temperature, even though Henry’s tone remained pleasant. 

“I just want what’s mine, Henry.”

“If Mr. Sanderson had wanted you to have the works in question, Mr. Janssen, he would have included them in the items he left you in his will. Since he did not, they belong to Mr. Van Sant, not you.” He turned to Joe. “Joe, on my way back up the ladies on the patio asked for some more Chardonnay. Could you take care of that for me, please?”

Joe wasted no time getting the hell out of Dodge. He uncorked the bottle and took it outside, and while he filled the womens’ glasses he sneaked a few glances back at the battlezone. The amazing thing was that if he hadn’t been over there, he would never guess there was any problem between Henry and the new customer. 

He wondered who the guy was. Obviously, Henry knew him and didn’t like him. And the guy knew Koren in some way, but hadn’t been too happy to learn that he was the new owner of River’s Flow. 

Speaking of the new owner, he saw Koren step onto the main drive from one of the trails, wiping his hands with a rag and setting his painting gear down by the corner of the stables. No artfully arranged messiness there—Koren’s jeans were covered with brushstrokes of paint, there was paint on his teeshirt, and even some in his hair.

Joe excused himself and walked over to meet him. “Yo, Koren, there’s this guy inside who I think knows you. Janssen?”

Koren stilled at hearing the name, and he frowned. “Nik Janssen?”

“I don’t know his first name, Henry’s being all scary-polite with him and called him Mr. Janssen. Remind me to _never_ get Henry mad at me.”

“Fuck,” Koren said. “I wonder what he wants.” He looked at Joe. “There’s customers in there?”

“Yeah,” Joe said, “decent crowd for a Thursday.”

Koren’s lips set to a thin, grim line. “I’d better not go in. I’ll call Henry after closing.” Then he turned around and started walking back down the road. “Tell Henry that whatever Janssen wants, I said no.”

“Alrighty then,” Joe said, and he went back inside.

He went back over to where Henry stood, with no small amount of trepidation, because the smiles that the two men bore could slice through concrete. “Sorry to interrupt, Henry, but I need your help with one of the register codes,” Joe lied smoothly, and as soon as he got Henry far enough away he relayed Koren’s reaction, and his response. 

“Hmm,” Henry said, and Joe had a feeling that Koren had just gone way up in Henry’s estimation. “This is the code you should use,” he said, raising his voice enough that it carried to the end of the counter. 

“Thanks,” Joe said, and he stayed put while Henry went back to the mysterious Mr. Janssen. Fortunately, the couple at his end was ready to pay their bill, so Joe busied himself with the transaction while he shamelessly eavesdropped.

To his amazement, Henry pulled out his phone and appeared to tap out a number. 

“Hello Koren, it’s Henry. There’s a Mr. Janssen who’d like to see—what? Yes, Nik Janssen. He wants to ask you about some of Corbin’s photographs that he feels should have gone to him.”

Nik Janssen was no longer smiling. He watched in stony silence while Henry talked. 

“Very well, I’ll let him know.” Henry thumbed the phone’s power button and then slid it into a holster at his hip. “I’m sorry, Mr. Janssen, Mr. Van Sant said he is not interested in giving you anything that belonged to Mr. Sanderson.”

“I’d like for him to tell me that.” Janssen said.

“I’m afraid Mr. Van Sant is also not interested in speaking with you,” Henry said, his uber-polite smile firmly back in place. “Is there anything else we can get for you this evening? Please enjoy the glass of Chambourcin with our compliments.”

Janssen rose from his seat and left without another word, leaving the rest of the wine untouched.

Over at his end of the counter, Joe took the signed credit card receipt, thanked the customers, and then he headed over to Henry, who was gripping the counter so hard his knuckles were white. “Dude, you were amazing,” he said. “All these people in here, and they had no idea you were having an epic showdown with that asshole. Did you really call Koren?”

“Of course not,” Henry said. “You told me all I needed to know.”

“He said he knew the former owner, and he knew Koren, too.”

“Yes, he collaborated on a few projects with Corbin, and they used to be friends of a sort. Corbin left him his cameras and supplies.” Henry took out a clean glass, poured the remaining wine into it, and downed its contents. “No point in wasting the wine,” he said.

“Sounds like he wanted more than what he got,” Joe said.

“Janssen wants a collection of works that were part of an exhibit he and Corbin did ten years ago,” Henry said. “He feels he has a claim to them since they were part of a collaborative effort. At first I was merely safeguarding Corbin’s art for his beneficiary, but when Janssen became more insistent, and then obviously tried to circumvent Corbin’s will, I’m afraid I dug in my heels out of spite.” He smiled at Joe. “It relieves me more than you know that Koren wants nothing to do with him.”

“Yeah, Koren got a little scary-looking when I told him who was here. There’s obviously some history there.” Joe touched his arm. “I’m sorry if I said anything I shouldn’t have,” he said.

“It’s not your fault,” Henry said, and he rinsed out the glasses and put them in the washer tray. “He took advantage of your being new here, and he would have found out soon anyway—the arts community here is fairly tight-knit, and I’m sure that Koren’s inheritance has become fodder for gossip.” He glanced up at the clock that hung above the door, and then over at the gaming crew, who were starting to box up their cards. “It’s almost seven, let’s start to get everyone settled up.” 

“Okay,” Joe said. He picked up his server book, and then he looked over at Henry and grinned. “I just want to say that you were completely badass and I’m really glad I’m your friend, because God help your enemies.”

The smile he got in return was genuine, and completely non-lethal. 

“I’m glad you’re my friend, too,” Henry said.


	14. Chapter 14

After closing the tasting room and bidding goodnight to Joe, Henry drove down to the house. He found Koren out on the patio, sprawled in one of the wrought iron deck chairs, smoking a cigarette and sipping from a glass of whiskey. The sun had set a little earlier and now the patio was illuminated by the copper and glass lanterns that hung from posts at each if the patio’s corners.

He noticed there was a second glass on the table, right next to the open bottle of scotch.

Smoke wafted in a crazy zig-zag as Koren waved at the table. “Help yourself,” he said.

“Don’t mind if I do.” Henry poured a generous splash into the glass, and then he settled down in the chair next to Koren.

“Sorry that I left you to deal with him,” Koren said.

“No, no,” Henry said, “you did exactly the right thing. You thought of the customers first.”

“Joe said you were being scary-polite with Janssen, and that he hoped he never got you angry with him.”

Henry chuckled, and then he took a sip of the whiskey. “Well, I’ve always thought that good manners could be a formidable defense. Mr. Janssen is such an unpleasant man.”

“That he is.” Koren finished his drink and reached for the bottle. “I never understood what Corbin saw in him. Yeah, the guy is talented, but I always thought he was a manipulative sleazeball.”He glanced over at Henry. “So what did I say no to?”

Henry told him about the photos that Janssen wanted. “This is the third time he’s been here. After the second time, when he tried to give me a fake letter, I told Morris about it—”

“Oh, I bet Mo loved hearing about that. He hates Nik more than I do.”

“Yes, Morris wasn’t happy, so he did some asking around, both in town and at the college in Wilmington where Corbin taught. He found out that a new photography museum just opened in the city, and that Mr. Janssen had proposed that one of the centerpieces should be a revival of his and Corbin’s ‘Moonlight and Darkness’ exhibit from ten years before.”

“They were working on that the last summer I spent here,” Koren said. “Corbin had me help him with the darkroom work.”

“He claims Corbin agreed to give him the photos.”

Koren frowned at him. “They weren’t going to be on loan? Isn’t that what usually happens with museum exhibits?”

“Yes, which is what makes this all so puzzling. They were also going to be available for sale.”

Koren returned to studying his whiskey. “Did Corbin ever mention this potential exhibit to you?” he asked.

“No,” Henry said, “and Morris said he didn’t know about it either. And, as you know, if Corbin was excited about something, he had to tell everyone.”

Koren took a deep drag off his cigarette, and then he blew a few smoke rings into the darkness. “Here’s what I think happened; Nik told Corbin about his idea, and Corbin wasn’t interested.”

“But I would think that it would have been very prestigious, to be in a major exhibit for a new museum.” Henry tipped a little more Scotch into his glass. “Wouldn’t it?”

Koren shrugged. “Corbin was never interested in prestige. And it would be an exhibit of his old work. Ten year old work.”

Henry stared at him. “I never thought of it that way. But I think you’re right. As much as Corbin loved having his older photos of friends and family on display, when it came to his art photography he only displayed newer works.”

“Exactly.” Koren scrubbed out his cigarette and he set his glass on the table while he reached for the pack. He tapped out another cigarette and lit it. “The first summer I was here—hell, the first _day_ I was here, the old man was all about doing something different. ‘Find a story, and tell it to me with paint,’ he said, and I’ve never forgotten it. Does that sound like someone who would want his old stories on display?”

“No, it doesn’t.”

“So Corbin told The Crow he didn’t want to do it, and now that Corbin’s dead he’s trying to pretend otherwise.”

“Excuse me, ‘The Crow?’” Henry had a feeling Koren was talking about Janssen, but he was curious about the nickname.

Koren retrieved his glass. “He loved dressing all in black, like he was fucking Andy Warhol.”

“Ah, now I see. He still favors that color, or lack thereof.” Henry set his glass on the table. He still had to drive back home, and two glasses of scotch was most definitely his limit. “I will tell you, though, he was not pleased when I told him about your refusal.”

“Good,” Koren said. “I’ll tell Mo he was here again when we meet for breakfast tomorrow. We might end up having to send a letter to the museum.”

“Oh, that’s a good idea,” Henry said, and then he stood. “I’m going to head home, I just wanted to bring you up to speed on everything.”

Koren looked up at him. “Thanks again, Henry. I appreciate you dealing with that whole mess, and looking out for Corbin’s wishes.”

“I won’t say it was my pleasure, but I’m glad I was able to deter him without making a scene. I’m guessing there’s bad blood between you two.”

Koren drained the contents of his glass. “Yeah,” he said. “Nik is the reason I stopped coming here.”


	15. Chapter 15

_School’s out for summer!_

_School’s out forever!_

Well, high school, anyway.

Koren smiled to himself as he turned onto the now-familiar road that led to River’s Flow. Finals had been a bitch, but now all of the nonsense surrounding graduation was finally over. Koren was happy to see the back of The Haverford School, and the only thing that had made the graduation ceremony worthwhile was seeing Corbin and Morris sitting next to his aunt—and seeing Corbin actually wearing a suit. Of course, Aunt Corinne had thrown a huge party afterward, and for once Koren was glad he didn’t know anyone so that he could spend most of the evening hanging out with Corbin and Mo.

A week later, and he was headed back to his favorite place in the world. It was a shame that he could only stay until the end of July, leaving him with a measly six weeks to spend with his friends. But new student orientation at Parsons was in mid-August, and his aunt wanted to get him settled in his dorm before then. So he had to be back in Philly by the end of the month. 

He pulled up in front of the old stone carriage house that had been turned into a three-car garage, with Corbin’s studio above. Light, and raucous laughter, spilled from the round, spiderweb-paned windows that were set above the doors, telling Koren that the usual weekend crowd was there. He figured he’d poke his head in and say ‘hi’ before he took his stuff to his room. He vaulted up the set of flagstone steps two at a time, and gave a cursory knock at the door before entering.

“Koren!” At least half a dozen people shouted his name.

Corbin came over and slung an arm across his shoulder. “Good to see you, my boy,” he said.

“You saw me last week,” Koren said, raising a hand to greet Morris, who was on the other side of the room. 

“Yes, yes, but that was last week, and now you are here with us for at least part of another summer!” He gestured at a large still life setup that the other men were arranging in the center of the room. “This weekend we’re doing still life, and so we’re putting together a nice setup.”

While Koren ultimately preferred landscape painting, still life was a close second. He liked that the setups were always a group effort, since it made sure that nobody fussed too long over what went where. Usually over the weekend everyone managed to finish a painting, and on Sundays they would view each other’s work and offer critique. Koren was the youngest by a good ten years, but everyone had enthusiastically welcomed him into the fold. Koren always looked forward to the weekend ‘salons,’ as Corbin called them; the creativity that buzzed in the studio while everyone worked was intoxicating, and he also learned a great deal about giving and receiving critique.

“I’ll go put my stuff away,” Koren said, but before he could leave, Corbin put a hand on his arm. 

“Hang on, I want you to meet someone first. Nikolas! Come over and meet Koren.”

“Ah, the young prodigy I’ve heard so much about.” A man clad all in black, who looked to be in his early thirties, walked over and held out a hand. “Nik Janssen.”

Koren shook it. “Koren Van Sant.”

Corbin patted Nik’s shoulder. “Nikolas used to be one of Morris’ sculpture students—he also took some of my painting courses back in the day—but now he’s back in Wilmington and taking the photography world by storm.”

Nik raised a shoulder in a shrug. “Corbin, it was one feature in _Focus Quarterly_.”

“He does a lot of experimental photography,” Corbin said, “and his best work has been with negative prints.”

“Negative prints?” Koren asked. “You mean, where the actual print is of the negative?”

Nik Janssen’s designer glasses glinted as he cocked his head and fired an imaginary finger pistol at him. “Bingo.” 

“We’re working on a collaboration,” Corbin said. “We’re calling it ‘Moonlight and Darkness,’ and it’ll be an exhibit of our prints; mine done by moonlight and Nik’s with his negative print process. Longwood Gardens is going to make it their fall art exhibit, and if it’s received well there we might have a second exhibit in New York City.”

“Wow,” Koren said, “that’s great.”

“You didn’t tell me Koren was so pretty, Corbin,” Nik said. “Almost androgynous. With his build and coloring he would look fantastic in a negative print. Have you ever modeled nude, Koren?”

“No,” Koren replied, frowning.

“And he’s not going to start now,” Corbin said firmly. “Go unpack and come on back,” he said to Koren. “We’re going to finish setting up the still life and then go out to eat.”

“Let me say hi to Mo first,” Koren said, and he went over to where Morris was setting up his worktable, clamping a large, thick slice of a tree trunk to its surface. While Morris didn’t paint, he usually worked on a small-scale wood project over the weekend. Koren suffered the bear hug that he received when he came within grabbing distance.

“Glad you made it here safe, kiddo,” Morris said. “We’re still not quite used to you driving yourself here.”

Koren rolled his eyes. “How come we’re not getting pizza or cheesesteaks like we usually do?”

Morris made a face. “Because Nik doesn’t like fast food.”

“Hunh,” Koren said. He glanced over at Nik, and realized that he was actually wearing an Indian silk _kurta,_ a long, embroidered tunic worn over equally long, skinny pants that bunched at the ankle. Nik didn’t look remotely like he was Indian, so Koren assumed it was for artistic effect.

“Go on,” Morris said, pushing him toward the door.

The subtly strained atmosphere at dinner that evening told Koren that something had changed within the ranks, and by the end of his first weekend back at River’s Flow he decided he didn’t like Nik Janssen all that much.

Apparently, neither did Morris nor several of the other artists.

Over the next few weeks, Nik was a regular fixture at River’s Flow, and sometimes Koren would see him walking around the fields, always dressed in black, carrying his huge Nikon, scouring the grounds for interesting subject matter. 

Koren wondered why Corbin liked him, since it seemed like as an artist, Nik was everything Corbin was not; affected, ambitious, and arrogant. He had to admit the guy was really talented, but so was everyone else in their group, and none of the others acted like they were the only ‘real’ artists in the room during the critique sessions. It was a shame, though, because as time went on more of the other artists found excuses to not go out to eat after one of their sessions, and several stopped coming at all.

Nik was especially critical of Koren’s work, but Koren was used to years of similar treatment from his classmates, so he didn’t let it faze him. 

But Corbin was happy, even though he was up half the night taking long-exposure photographs. His portion of the exhibit was photos where the only light source was moonlight, which of course meant shooting late at night. Koren had arrived two weeks before the full moon, and Corbin had explained to him that he only had six or seven days a month where he would get decent moonlight. 

“The more I shoot, the more choices I have,” Corbin said. “I have to have everything framed and ready to go by late September, so that means I only have two more chances to get all my shots done.”

In Koren’s opinion, Corbin already had some spectacular pieces. 

He’d been there a month when the full moon came around again, and Corbin had lucked out with a stretch of cloudless days and equally cloudless nights. Koren found himself at loose ends on those days, because Corbin ended up sleeping in late.

Morris came to the rescue and took him out for breakfast every morning.

“It’s been weird this summer,” Koren said, pushing his pancakes around his plate as he sat across from Morris at the local diner. “Corbin’s spending most of his time either staying up to o’dark thirty taking photographs, sleeping off being up that late, being holed up in the darkroom for hours, or brainstorming with Nik. I kind of feel like I’m in the way.”

“Nonsense,” Morris said. “Corbin said you’ve been a big help in the darkroom. Because of your assistance he’s been able to get his preliminary prints together much quicker than he had figured. And don’t pay any attention to Nik. I try not to.” He poured himself some more coffee from the little carafe the waitress had left on the table. “Shooting by moonlight affects Corbin’s schedule, but I’ve seen him get this way before an exhibit. Maybe someday soon _you’ll_ be painting day and night to get ready for a show.”

Koren snorted. “I doubt it,” he said. “School’s going to own my soul for a few years.” He met Morris’ gaze. “Corbin’s not happy that I’m going to Parsons and not the Art League of New York.”

Morris shrugged. “I know. He wanted you to go to the Art League and get their certificate in Painting.”

“But their certificate isn’t a bachelor’s degree,” Koren said. “Parsons has a really good Communication Design program where I’ll have internships at some New York marketing agencies. I can always add on classes from their fine arts program.”

“You sure you want to work in the land of deadlines?” Morris teased. 

“Corbin’s got deadlines, look at what he’s been doing for the past month,” Koren retorted. “It’s just that I… think I need to be practical about this, and study something that will let me make a decent living. I can’t live with my aunt forever, just like I can’t keep spending summers here.”

Morris stared glumly at his coffee. “I had a feeling this might be your last full summer with us.”

“Don’t worry, Mo, I’ll visit.”

As if the weather had held out specifically for Corbin’s photography, the day after he finished his last shoot, the skies clouded over and the next week was nothing but rain.

Unable to go outside, Koren ended up spending most of his time in the studio, painting still life. Some days Corbin recruited him to help in the darkroom, which was situated on the ground floor of the carriage house, behind where the cars were kept. While Koren didn’t think he’d ever take up photography, it was neat to learn some of the old-school techniques, as well as some of the experimental effects Corbin was working on. The only downside to Corbin’s preparation for the show was that he’d had to cancel the last two ‘salons,’ since he needed all the space in the studio for matting and framing.

Koren didn’t mind it too much; he liked sharing the studio with just Corbin, and he even didn’t mind that Corbin blasted the oldies station and sang along while he worked.

He only minded when Nik Janssen was there, mostly because if Nik was in the studio, Corbin would invite him to stay for dinner, and that mean an evening of listening to Nik’s opinions about anything and everything. 

The next Saturday, Nik was there again, working with Corbin in the darkroom, so of course that meant that he joined them for dinner. Morris had left early, and Koren had been unable to come up with a decent reason to go up to his room early, so he ended up on the patio after dinner with Nik and Corbin, and the two older men drank wine while Koren nursed a root beer.

“Only a week left,” Corbin said mournfully to his wineglass.

“A week?” Nik asked.

“One week until Korey leaves us, to head off to college,” Corbin said, and he pouted at Koren. “To Parson’s, and not the Art League.”

“I told you, I can take fine art classes at Parson’s, Corbin,” Koren said. 

“Pfft,” Corbin replied.

“Let him make his own decisions, Corbin,” Nik said. “Koren doesn’t have the money that you and Morris do to fall back on, and I’m sure he’s tired of depending on everyone’s charity,” Nik took a drag off his cigarette and blew it in Koren’s direction. “Koren’s got enough talent to make a decent living at an agency in the city. Painters are a dime a dozen—”

“So are photographers, Nikolas,” Corbin reminded him.

“Yeah, but _successful_ painters and photographers are rare. Would I be able to do this if my parents hadn’t been rich? Would you?” Nik pointed at Koren. “Go find a good day job, kid, and paint your pretty pictures on the side. Maybe someday, someone will even buy one.”

Koren said nothing, and there was silence on the patio until a timer went off, its shrill beeping suddenly over-loud.

“Oh! That’s my last timer,” Corbin said, and he set his wine on the table and rose from his chair. “I need to take those last few prints out of their bath. I won’t be too long, you two sit tight until I get back.” He hurried out toward the studio.

Nik poured more wine into his glass. “You’re making the right decision,” he said to Koren. “You can’t make a living from your paintings, no matter what Corbin says. And now that you’re older, don’t you think you need to stop staying here during the summer?”

Koren sat up and scowled. “That’s none of your business,” he said.

Nik shrugged. “I’m only trying to be the voice of reason, babe. You need to stop playing artist and start focusing on building your career. The only way you could do it was if you had a sugar daddy,” he waggled his eyebrows, “and since Corbin truly does think of you as a son, he’s out as an option.”

“Don’t be gross, Nik.” Koren got up and tossed his empty bottle into the recycling can, and then he walked over to the patio’s edge, leaning his hands on the flagstone ledge of its waist-high wall, while he stared out at the inky darkness of the river. He didn’t like the man, but he had to admit that Nik was right, that he needed to put his energy toward making a decent living. He could always go back to painting later, he told himself. 

Koren started when he felt Nik’s breath against his ear, and the press of Nik’s body behind him. 

“If you want a sugar daddy, _Korey,_ I’d be happy to take you on. I could get you into all the best galleries, and you’d never have to worry about money,” Nik whispered. “I’ve wanted to get my cock in your tight little ass—and your pretty mouth—for weeks.” He reached down and grabbed Koren’s ass, giving it a squeeze before he moved his hand between Koren’s jean-clad thighs. “I bet you could suck the wind out of sails.” 

Koren wrenched himself around and shoved Nik away. “Get your fucking hands off me!” He shouted. 

Nik sighed. “I’m guessing that’s a no,” he said. “That’s a shame, we could have had such fun.”

Koren backed further away. “You fucking pedo.”

“You’re eighteen, sweetheart, all nice and legal.” The patio lantern turned Nik’s glasses into twin ovals of light as he leaned back against the stone wall. “So what are you going to do, tell Daddy that the bad man copped a feel? I talked about fucking and sucking and maybe got you hard?”

Koren sneered at him. “Like I’d get turned on by someone as repulsive as you,” he said. “Maybe Corbin should know what an asshole he’s working with.”

Nik smirked. “Let’s say you tattle to Daddy. Do you realize the consequences? Do you really want Corbin to end his association with me when our _major_ exhibit is mere weeks away? An exhibit that is now multi-city? You wouldn’t be hurting me, you’d be hurting him.” 

Koren clenched his fists, trying to resist the urge to punch that smirk off of Nik’s face, and then he walked back over to the patio table and took his seat.

“I’m back!” Corbin called as he came back onto the patio. His gaze went from where Koren sat to the edge of the patio where Nik still stood. “I thought I heard raised voices, were you two arguing?”

“I invited Koren to see the Mapplethorpe exhibit next week at the Adamson in DC,” Nik lied smoothly, “and I’m afraid Koren had strong opinions about Mr. Mapplethorpe’s artistic vision.”

“We don’t have time to go see any exhibits, we have to prepare for our own,” Corbin said as he sat back down in his chair. “Besides, Korey only has another week before he has to leave us to get ready for college.” He reached for the bottle of wine and refilled his glass.

Nik watched Koren with a glittering gaze, silently daring him to tell the truth.

_You wouldn’t be hurting me, you’d be hurting him._

Koren realized he needed to keep his mouth shut, for Corbin’s sake. “Mapplethorpe was a pretentious hack,” he said.

A corner of Nik’s mouth lifted. “See?” he said. “This is what we were arguing about.”

Corbin laughed, and everything went back to normal.

Except it wasn’t. Koren sat in his chair and listened to the two men debate the merits of the controversial photographer, and he decided that when he visited River’s Flow in the future, it would need to be when Nik Janssen wasn’t there.


	16. Chapter 16

It was hard to believe that Koren had been at River’s Flow for a month already.

The time was flying by, Gordon thought as he carried his tool bag over to the rows of Chambourcin vines that grew in the field just past the tasting room. Koren stood at the top of the hill, in front of his easel, working on a large canvas. As he walked by, Gordon called his name and waved. Koren lifted a hand in response, then returned his focus to his painting.

Gordon did some quick math, and realized that after this painting, Koren only had one more to do. Two more weeks, and Koren would inherit the winery, and be free to return to his life in Chicago. 

But would he go? Or had he finally fallen back under the land’s spell?

Some days, Gordon was sure that Koren was going to stay. Over the past few weeks, he’d become more relaxed, and even seemed content while he worked on his paintings. Their Saturday night dinners had become a habit, and after Koren had invited them all down to the house for dinner after closing two Sundays ago, Sunday dinner on the patio followed by cards or mahjongg had become habit too.

But then there were days when Koren practically stomped around the grounds, cigarette dangling from his mouth, his stormcloud expression making everyone steer clear of him.

Today seemed to be a good day.

Gordon put in his earbuds, started his music app on his phone, and set to work. He snipped away leaves that crowded burgeoning clusters of grapes, giving them room to breath and access to sunlight. Not too much though—he tied back a few bunches that were getting too much sun. After he finished a section he inspected the ground for unwanted shoot growth, and then he inspected the drip irrigation lines he and Corbin had installed two winters ago. So far, the summer had been a decent one, and he hadn’t had to irrigate the vines. Then he would stretch a bit, have some water and a few bites of a granola bar, and move on to the next section.

He realized that most people would find these tasks mind-numbingly boring, but Gordon truly enjoying growing things and tending to them. It had been devastating when his grandfather sold the farm, giving him the choice of moving with his grandparents to Arizona or staying in Pennsylvania and making his own way.

A hard choice for an eighteen-year-old, just out of high school, who only knew farming.

Fortunately Corbin made the choice easier, by not only offering him a full-time job at River’s Flow, but also letting him live in the old spring house. It had taken them the better part of that summer to make the place livable, and then the two of them set out to plant a vineyard.

Gordon tried not to think about what would happen if the property was sold, because he didn’t want to relive the anxiety he’d experienced four years earlier. He knew things were different now; he was an experienced vineyard manager, and even though he was young he knew he was good at what he did. Hopefully a new owner would want to keep him, but if not, Gordon knew he could find work at one of the other wineries, even if it wasn’t as a manager. Corbin’s gift of the spring house and the property surrounding it meant he didn’t have to make a lot of money to get by. 

He shook his head and pushed the thoughts away. Koren was going to stay, he told himself, or he would go back to Chicago but keep River’s Flow, and just let him and Henry run it. _The first one, please,_ he thought.

He fell back into the rhythm of his work, singing along to the music and dancing from section to section. He was about to move on to the next to last row of vines when he felt a tap on his arm. He jumped and yelped in surprise.

It was Koren, and Gordon yanked out his earbuds.

“Dude! You scared me half to death!”

Koren snorted. “Your own damn fault for having the volume up too loud. It’s lunchtime, and Henry brought us back sandwiches from his trip into town. By the way, your singing sucks.”

“Ooh, sandwiches from Janice and Doug’s place?” Gordon ignored the remark about his singing, and he followed Koren down the row and up to the spot where Koren’s easel stood, under the massive oak trees that towered over the barn. “We’re not eating with Joe and Henry?”

“They ate there, and Henry brought some back for us. Sit.” Koren sat down on the grass, took off his hat, and started rummaging through a large paper bag.

Gordon plopped down next to him. “That was nice of them,” he said, and he accepted the wrapped sandwich that Koren held out.

Koren pulled out a bag of chips, a bottle of water, and an orange soda. “Orange Crush? Really? What are you, twelve?”

“Gimme,” Gordon said, wiggling his fingers. He popped the can open and took a long drink. “What, you’re too grown up for soda?”

Koren shrugged. “I like root beer, but I got spoiled by a brewery in Chicago that makes their own.”

“Root beer on tap? Cool!” 

“Yeah, it’s pretty damn good.”

They enjoyed their sandwiches in a companionable silence, and while he ate, Gordon sneaked a peek over at the painting on Koren’s easel. It was—or was soon going to be—the eastern field, with its rows of Chambourcin, Concord, and Chardonnay, edged by woods and dotted with patches of riotous wildflowers. Beyond the green blobs Gordon knew would eventually be trees, he spotted the sparkle of the Brandywine.

“That’s going to be beautiful,” he said, pointing at the canvas. “I’m glad you have the river in there.”

“The river has to be there,” Koren said. 

Gordon nodded. “’River’s Flow.’”

“Exactly.”

“It’s a pretty big canvas,” Gordon said. “Is it going to take you awhile to finish?”

“Yeah, a few days, I think,” Koren said. “For one thing, it’s bigger, and another, I really like how this field looks in the morning sunlight.” He took another bite of his sandwich and reached into the bag for a handful of chips. “I would’ve stopped anyway, even if Henry hadn’t brought lunch; the light has changed, and now the shadows are all wrong.” 

Gordon looked beyond the canvas to the land beyond it. “Yeah, it’s not like you can move the whole field back to the way you want it. Does that mean you just leave everything here?”

“Hell no,” Koren said. “I put stakes in the ground where the feet of my easel are, that way I can set up in the exact same spot tomorrow morning.”

Gordon smiled. “Sounds like you’ve done that before.”

“Yeah, sometimes the old man loved to make me paint large.” 

Gordon finished his sandwich and his soda, and he crumpled everything up and stuffed it in the paper bag. “It was nice having lunch with you,” he said as he got to his feet. “I have to get back to work. I have two more rows of Chambourcin to do, and then I promised Henry I would help him transfer one of the wines into some new barrels.” He decided to take the chance and ask, “Do you want to come along and help? I can help you pack up here when we’re done.” He held his breath, waiting for the answer.

Koren looked up at him for a moment, and then he said, “Yeah, okay,” and got up.

Gordon blinked for a moment, not expecting that response, then he smiled and said, “Cool! Thanks!”

“Just no singing,” Koren said. He filled the bag with the remains of his lunch and stowed it in a spot where it wouldn’t blow away.

When they got down to the vines, Gordon pulled out an extra set of gloves from his bag, handed Koren a pair of cutters, and gave him a quick rundown on what he needed to do. While they worked, Gordon took another chance and asked Koren about his work in Chicago, and Koren told him about the company he worked for, some of the crazier jobs he’d worked on over the years, and his latest project.

“Wow, so you got to decide how all the stuff looked for _four_ casinos?” Gordon asked.

“Well, not the decorating or anything like that,” Koren said, and he reached in one of the bag’s side pockets for a tie. “I was in charge of designing all the signage and printed materials, the cards they gave out to their patrons, and all of the advertising and direct marketing standards. They’ll still use us for their marketing campaigns, but it will be a different department, and they will have to go by what my team set up.”

“Isn’t it hard doing stuff that other people have to approve?”

“Sometimes,” Koren said. “Especially when I come up with an idea that I thought was really good, but the customer hates it and I have to start all over. And then I’m be behind the eight-ball on deadline because of the time I’d spent on the other design. Deadlines are the worst part of the job.”

“I bet,” Gordon said. “We kind of have deadlines too—although it’s the grapes, not crazy customers. Things have to be done at a certain time, or it can mess up how the grapes develop. And harvest—if you don’t pick the grapes when they’re ready, you’ll have crappy wine.”

“That’s coming soon, isn’t it?”

“Yeah,” Gordon said. “Fortunately, the grapes ripen at different times. But this grape, and two others, are getting close.” He pulled off a glove, plucked a grape off a nearby cluster, and deep red juice spurted over his fingers when he crushed it with his thumb. “See how easy the skin broke, and how juicy it is.” He popped it into his mouth. “Mmm, still mostly tart, but there’s a little bit of sweet there that tells me these are starting to ripen. Here, try one.” He picked another grape and held it up to Koren’s lips. To his surprise, Koren let him feed it to him, and heat flared in his groin at the touch of Koren’s lips on his fingertips, and the velvety rasp of Koren’s tongue brushing against them, licking away the juice.

Time slowed again, like it had that night in Koren’s car, but when Koren’s gaze once again drifted to his mouth Gordon knew things were going to be different this time.

Grape leaves tickled his back as Koren pushed him against the vines, and the part of Gordon’s brain that was still working was glad that he’d used steel support stakes in these rows. But then Koren’s mouth covered his and Gordon forgot all about vine support, forgot about everything except the man who was kissing him.

Koren yanked off his gloves to tangle one hand into Gordon’s hair, while the other cupped his cheek, Koren’s thumb brushing against his jaw to encourage him to open his mouth.

Gordon eagerly complied, groaning when Koren’s tongue touched his. He slid his hands around Koren’s narrow waist to pull him closer, and when he realized he still had one glove on he pulled it off so that he could slip his hands beneath Koren’s teeshirt, and feel Koren’s sun-warmed skin beneath his fingers.

He trailed his fingers along the bumps of Koren’s spine, and the muffled groan that rumbled in Koren’s throat tightened the knot of arousal in Gordon’s belly.

Koren pressed closer against him, and Gorden let out a small yelp when a metal tie dug into his back. 

Koren pulled back, and broke off their kiss. Gordon kept his hands where they were, and tried to catch his breath.

“Sorry,” Koren said. 

But his kiss-swollen mouth didn’t look sorry, and neither was the hard ridge of an erection that pressed against Gordon’s hip. Gordon was hard too, and he knew Koren could feel it, with the way Koren’s leg was practically between his thighs.

“I’m not,” Gordon said, He’d been wanting to kiss Koren since the night they’d all gone out to dinner. And, remembering his earlier fascination, Gordon lifted a hand to touch a shining, blond lock of hair. It was soft and silky, just like he’d imagined it. He watched Koren’s eyes darken at his touch.

Koren kissed him again, and this time Gordon was the one with his hands in Koren’s hair, while Koren’s hands moved to the small of his back, gentle strokes of apology gradually turning into slow caresses. Koren’s leg shifted, and Gordon moaned when it pressed against his aching erection.

He was startled out of his haze of arousal by the insistent chiming of his phone.

“Don’t answer it,” Koren murmured against his ear.

“I-I gotta,” Gordon said shakily. “It’s Henry.” 

Koren moved back, and Gordon fumbled in his back pocket for the phone.

“H-hey, Henry, what’s up?”

“Gordon, where are you? You were supposed to meet me in the stables at two o’clock.”

“What?” Gordon turned his wrist and looked at his watch. “Oh shit, I’m sorry, I lost track of time.”

Henry chuckled on the other end of the line. “Let me guess, you were dancing in the field again.”

Gordon ducked his head, even though Henry couldn’t see him. “Maybe I danced a little.” He saw the corner of Koren’s mouth quirk up in amusement. “I’ll be there in a couple of minutes.” He ended the call and put the phone back in his pocket. “I have to go, I should have been at the stables fifteen minutes ago.”

“No problem,” Koren said, and he helped Gordon put the cutters and gloves back into the tool bag.

They walked back toward the barn, close enough that their shoulders bumped, and their hands occasionally brushed together. When they came out of the vine rows Gordon saw Koren’s easel at the top of the hill. “Crap,” he said, “I was going to help you put away your stuff.”

“It’s all right.” 

“Thanks for your help,” Gordon said, and before Koren could leave he shifted his tool bag to his other hand, and then he reached up to tug Koren’s head down for a quick kiss. “Thanks for this, too,” he whispered against Koren’s mouth. One more kiss, a tangle of tongues, and then Koren pulled away.

“Better get going,” Koren said, delivering a light smack to Gordon’s backside. “I don’t want to hear Henry bitch about you being late.” He turned and headed up toward his gear.

Gordon waited long enough to enjoy watching Koren’s ass move under snug denim as he walked up the hill. He wondered what it looked like without the denim.

If the kisses they’d just shared were any indicator, Gordon thought he had a pretty good chance of finding out.


	17. Chapter 17

On the Monday morning of his last week, Koren dressed and made his way downstairs, following an excited Dragon who was eager for their now daily morning walks.

“Slow down, dog,” he complained, yawning so hard that his jaw cracked. “I haven’t made coffee yet. No walk without coffee.”

Dragon wagged his tail and darted into the kitchen.

One more week, Koren thought as he filled the coffeemaker with water. One more painting, on the biggest canvas. What was he going to paint? He’d done grapes, the barn, a field of vines, what was left of the wildflower meadow, and a rock-strewn stream bed near the spring house. Maybe he’d take Dragon on a longer walk this morning, and try and scout some good spots.

He poured himself a bowl of cereal and munched on it while the coffee brewed.

His mind flitted past the task at hand to dwell on the bigger picture—what the hell was he going to do with this place once his time was up, and all six paintings were done? The more time that passed, the more reluctant Koren was to just sell it. Gordon and Henry weren’t faceless employees any more—they were people who had loved Corbin, loved the land, and their lives would be seriously affected if he decided to sell.

Koren had to admit they’d become his friends over the last month and a half. And Gordon… 

He thought about the kiss they’d shared the other day, and heat curled in his groin as he remembered the sweet tang of the grapes that had lingered on Gordon’s lips, the eager way Gordon’s tongue had moved against his, and the warmth of Gordon’s hands on his skin.

Where was it headed, this thing between them? While Koren’s dick hoped it would end up in bed, with lots of fucking, his head knew he couldn’t do that and then just go back to Chicago. 

The coffeemaker beeped and coughed out the last drips of fragrant brew. Koren filled up an oversized mug, pushed his feet into a scruffy pair of boat shoes that he kept in the hallway closet, and headed for the back door, Dragon prancing at his heels.

“All right, mutt, let’s go.” He started out down a well-worn track that wound alongside the river, sipping at his coffee while Dragon ran ahead to inspect—and piss on—every tree on the trail.

A very large part of him didn’t want to go back to Chicago in a week. Koren hadn’t expected the friendships that had developed, or the peace that had permeated down to his bones… and he definitely hadn’t expected the attraction that had flared up between him and Gordon. The skinny kid he’d met all those years ago had grown up into a handsome man, and Gordon had a boyish charm and energy that Koren liked very much. Not to mention a body that looked like Michelangelo had carved it.

The old man had gotten what he wanted. Koren’s fingers were itching to paint again, looking for new stories for his paintbrush to tell, and in the past five weeks he’d slept better than he had in the last five years. The sound of the river’s flow beckoned to him no matter where he walked over the hundred acres of land; it lulled him to sleep at night and greeted him every morning.

But the problem was, he wasn’t Corbin, who had never had to worry about rent and student loans. 

If he sold River’s Flow, he could invest that money, and have some financial security. Companies didn’t offer pensions anymore, and he was lucky that Three Aspects matched three percent of his 401K contributions. If he stuck it out there for another five years, he would have enough experience to go after another position with a three-figure salary.

Maybe he could keep the place for awhile, and spend his vacations at River’s Flow, painting. If he did that, maybe he could pursue a relationship with Gordon.

Maybe, maybe.

Koren drained the last of his coffee, and when he looked around he realized he had walked to the easternmost edge of the property, and hadn’t really looked at anything. He hiked over to the meadow, and as he passed the rows and rows of young grapevines that took up much of the space, he looked for inspiration and found none.

Out in the middle of the field, Gordon called his name and waved a greeting.

He waved back, and when he heard Dragon’s excited yips he told the dog, “Go ahead, go see Gordon.” Dragon took off like a shot, and moments later Koren heard Gordon make a fuss over him. He knew Dragon would return to the house when he was ready, so Koren walked on.

An hour later he was back at the house, and had not found anything that called to him. He kicked off his shoes, and as he went into the kitchen to wash his coffee mug, he noticed that he’d left his phone on the kitchen table.

A blinking blue light told him he had messages. Koren picked up the phone and scrolled through the texts. The first was from Henry, asking him to stop by the tasting room so they could go over the week’s food orders, and the second was from Gordon, letting him know that Dragon decided to take a nap, and that he would bring him back to the house later.

The third was a voicemail from his boss.

Koren frowned at the tiny animated tape icon. What could Jake be calling about? There had been a few times Koren’s assistants had phoned him, and two weeks earlier he’d had to remote in to soft-proof some legal changes that had to be made to the Four Aces Casino ad campaigns, but other than that he’d been left alone for the most part. Why was his boss calling a week before he was due to come back?

He tapped the icon, and raised the phone to his ear.

“Good morning, Koren, it’s Jake. I’m going to skip all the ‘sorry to bother you’ crap and just tell you that I need you back here, pronto. Like tomorrow. Call me.”

Koren’s hand came down, and he stared at the phone. _What the hell?_ He walked into the living room, plopped down onto the sofa, and touched the call button.

“Hi, Koren, thanks for getting back to me so quickly.” Jake Kuen sounded both excited and nervous, and Koren could practically hear the stress on the other end of the line.

“No problem,” he said. “What’s going on?”

“Well, it’s actually good news—we have a new customer, and they came to us because of your work with the Four Aces casinos. They’re Indian-owned, out of Michigan.”

Koren felt a flicker of pride at the implied compliment. “That is good news. But why do you need me there tomorrow?”

“Well, the CEO at Four Feathers Gaming loved what you did with Four Aces, and because of that he’s adamant that you handle everything. He wants to have the first meeting tomorrow morning, and he wants you there.”

Koren took a deep breath. “Jake, you know I’m due to come back next Monday, right? We can’t reschedule for then? Or have a video conference?”

“They can’t wait,” his boss said. “They’ve bought four old casinos in Michigan, and they’re at the final stage of getting tribal approval to spend close to two hundred million dollars to make them a cohesive set of gaming properties. Trouble is, while the tribe voted to approve the renovations, they rejected the branding and marketing campaign that another agency did for them. Apparently one of the tribe’s leaders mentioned us, and how much they liked what we did with Four Aces. The whole project is in limbo until they get a branding campaign that the tribe will approve, and the CEO is afraid of losing his contractors if he doesn’t move soon.”

Two hundred million dollars. Koren whistled at the amount. “That’s more than twice what Four Aces spent on their properties,” he said.

“Yes, it is, and we can make a hell of a lot of money if we get this account. But you and your team can’t get started on a campaign until you meet with him and his people, and the CEO wants to come here tomorrow to get the ball rolling. The priority will be their flagship casino, Four Feathers Raven, which is going to have a resort hotel and entertainment arena right on the North Shore.”

Jake was getting all wound up, and Koren needed to dial him back a bit. “But Jake, I need to stay here until next Sunday—”

“Koren.” His boss’ voice took on a steely tone. “I thought I was being pretty generous in allowing you to take your vacation time all at once. I understand about the inheritance thing, but I can’t let a multi-million dollar account slip away because you need to stay in Pennsylvania an extra week. Have your lawyer work it out.”

Koren could feel his pulse pounding in his temple. “I guess I have no choice,” he said.

“Not if you want to remain employed with Three Aspects Advertising. Don’t be stupid, young man. You can have a bright future with us.” 

_Shit._ Koren pinched the bridge of his nose. It looked like the decision about River’s Flow had just been taken out of his hands. “I’ll be there,” he said. “What time is the meeting tomorrow?”


	18. Chapter 18

It was almost lunchtime by the time Gordon finished trimming leaves in the rows of Concord out in the western field. The grape liked wider, taller rows, so it took extra time to remove the leaves that were crowding the burgeoning clusters of deep, bluish-purple grapes. 

He stuffed the remaining cut leaves into a burlap bag that was slung across his shoulder; two Greek restaurants in the area loved using the large leaves in their recipes, so Gordon would be bagging these up for the chefs to pick up later in the day. The chefs got to brag about using fresh, local grape leaves, and Rivers Flow got their wines in the two restaurants.

He heard Dragon bark, and turned to watch the dog rolling on his back in the field at the end of the rows, his white fur covered in grass and bits of dirt.

“Dragon! Come!” Gordon called, slapping the side of his leg. The dog bounded over, and wriggled happily as Gordon scratched behind his ears and thumped him on his flank. “Naughty boy,” he said, “where’d you find all that dirt? Koren’s not going to let you back in the house looking like that.”

Dragon just wagged his tail.

“C’mon, boy, lets get you back to the house,” Gordon said, and he walked to the end of the row, cutting across to check out the Chambourcin that grew on the other side of the field. Everything was proceeding nicely there. Because he was paranoid he double-checked the section that Koren had worked on a few days earlier, but to his relief—and surprise—the two rows that Koren had trimmed and tied were done with neat precision.

He popped a grape into his mouth, and as its sweetness burst across his tongue Gordon was brought back to that moment when Koren had kissed him. He closed his eyes for a moment, savoring the memory of Koren’s mouth on his, Koren’s fingers threading through his hair, and the heat that had been in Koren’s gaze when they had pulled apart.

A cold, wet nose poking into his hand startled Gordon back to reality. “Oops, I got a little carried away,” he told the dog, and they continued walking up the hill. 

Gordon stopped by the old stables to divvy up the leaves and bag them, and he saw that Henry was already there, checking on some of the tanks that were almost ready for bottling. “Hi, Henry,” he said as he dumped out the contents of the bag on a nearby steel table.

Henry glanced over and smiled at him. “Good morning, Gordon.” Dragon trotted over to Henry to get some love, and Henry readily complied.

Gordon watched while Dragon made happy grunts and rolled onto his back for belly rubs. 

“I think he likes you best,” he said while he stuffed grape leaves into two paper bags. “It’s a shame your landlord doesn’t allow dogs.”

Henry removed some leaves from Dragon’s haunches. “Even if they did, I don’t think it would be fair to Dragon to keep him cooped up in an apartment. He’s a farm dog, and he’s used to having the run of this place.” He stood, brushing grass from his pants. “The customers enjoy having him in the tasting room, too, I’ve heard people comment on how they love that he has to greet everyone. Dragon’s the unofficial host of the room.”

Gordon laughed at the thought of a dog as a host. “He’s getting along okay with Joe?”

“Yes, Joe’s still a little uncomfortable having him there, but he said that’s because he’s used to working at places that didn’t allow animals. And Dragon is now used to seeing Joe with me when I go to all the buildings, so he’s not growling any more when Joe has to get things from the other buildings.”

“That’s good,” Gordon said. “Joe’s a good guy, I hope he stays.”

“I do, too,” Henry said. He gestured at the now filled bags. “Do you want me to take them to the tasting room when I go over there?”

“That’d be great, thanks,” Gordon said. “I’ll text Dimitri and Alex and let them know everything’s ready.”

“Good. I think Dimitri needs to pick up more wine, too,” Henry said. “Before you go, come give me your opinion on some of these tanks. There’s a few that I think we might need to bottle next week, but if we can hold out for another two weeks another three will be ready and we can save money on renting the corker.”

Gordon went over to taste the contents of each tank, and he agreed with Henry that there wouldn’t be any harm in waiting to bottle everything at once. “We’ll need some extra help, though, if we do those tanks with the others.”

“I can email the customers who’ve helped before. The Carsons actually asked me when we were going to be bottling again.”

“Mrs Carson is better, and faster, than some people we’ve paid,” Gordon said. “And the Thompsons already volunteered to help sort after we harvest the Reisling and Chardonnay. We have awesome customers.”

“Yes, we do,” Henry replied with a smile.

Gordon folded the bags closed, and after lifting a hand in farewell, he went back outside, grunting when he was practically blasted by the heat outside. “Dog days of summer,” he said. “C’mon, dog.”

Dragon’s tags jingled as he followed along.

Koren was at the front door when Gordon and Dragon reached the house. “Hi Koren,” Gordon said, “I wanted to let Dragon inside; I have to till the new section and I don’t want to worry about—” he stopped when he saw the suitcase in Koren’s hand. His gaze flew over to the car, which was out of the garage, and had the trunk popped open. “Koren? What’s going on?”

Koren walked past him and tossed his suitcase into the trunk. “I have to go back.”

Gordon’s mouth dropped open. “You _what?”_ But Koren was already walking back to the house, and Gordon followed him as the dog raced paced him to go inside. “Go back? To Chicago? But you still have a week left to go!”

Koren scowled as he picked up his backpack. “Yeah, tell my boss that. I told him, and he didn’t give a shit.” He strode out to the car again, and moments later the backpack landed next to the suitcase.

“I don’t understand. You’re almost done!”

Koren stopped and glared at him. “There’s nothing to understand. My boss called and said I have to be back at work tomorrow. There’s a new customer who only wants me to handle the work, and I was pretty much told that if I don’t show up tomorrow, I’m out of a job.”

Gordon blinked. “They couldn’t wait a _week?”_

“Apparently not.” Koren went back into the house once more.

A cold trickle of dread ran down Gordon’s back when he saw a box filled with photos and framed paintings in Koren’s hands. “You… you’re taking your old paintings?”

Koren shut the front door, and then put the items into the trunk, using more care than he had with his backpack and clothes. “Yeah. These belong to me. And no one’s going to want the photos he took of me. I’m taking them back to Chicago.”

“You mean you’re not coming back?” Gordon’s heart started pounding hard against his ribcage.

Koren slammed the trunk lid shut, and he rested his palms against it, leaning on the car. “There’s no point. I’m not going to meet the stipulations.”

“You will if you stay.”

“I’ll lose my job if I stay.”

“Then you can live and work here, at the winery,” Gordon said, “and you can paint.” He touched Koren’s arm.

Koren batted his hand away. “That’s not going to pay me what I make at Three Aspects,” he said, and he fished his keys out of his pocket and started working the house keys off of the ring.

“But you’re not even giving it a chance!” 

“I’d be stupid to assume that I can make a living off my art,” Koren said, “and if I get fired from Three Aspects, no one in the industry will touch me. I just can’t take the risk.” Koren held out the keys.

With a trembling hand, Gordon took the keys. “He left you all this so that you _could_ take the risk, don’t you see that?” He followed Koren around to the driver’s side of the car, and watched helplessly as Koren got in the car. “He left you a house that’s paid for. Land that has a thriving vineyard on it. And a winery that makes enough money to support its employees! Give us a chance, Koren!”

Koren looked up at him with a piercing gaze that told Gordon he knew Gordon was talking about more than River’s Flow. “I told you from the beginning that I didn’t know if I was going to keep this place. I still don’t know, and I’m not going to risk my career trying to find out.”

His dismissive tone made something inside Gordon snap. “Corbin gave you everything you need, and you just refuse to see it.” He clenched his fist, ignoring the bite of the keys against his palm. “You’re a coward.”

For a second Gordon thought that Koren was going to get out of the car and come after him, but instead Koren just pushed the ignition button and started the car. Gordon jumped out of the way as Koren backed up past the house, and then gravel scattered as he hit the gas and sped off down the main drive.

The flash of anger faded as Gordon watched the car disappear, and then he stared glumly at the keys in his hand. The ‘Hello Kitty’ keyring looked back at him, expressionless. He swallowed hard, then returned his gaze to the now-empty road.

“I wish you would have taken the chance,” he said.


	19. Chapter 19

Koren paced in his office, tugging at an already loosened necktie. He’d shown up in the conference room at 9AM, tired and angry but ready to get to work, only to be told that the customer had rescheduled the meeting an hour earlier.

“Mr. Samuels said the Marketing Director is ill, and since they need her at our meeting, they’re going to come Friday morning instead,” Jake told him. “I’m sorry, Koren. I really appreciate that you made it out here on time. I won’t forget your loyalty to the company.”

Koren said nothing, and returned to his office, where he spent the rest of the morning going through the eleventy-billion emails that had clogged his inbox during his absence. After lunch, the rest of the day was taken up with reviewing where his staff was on their projects, and then sitting in on a production meeting just to get an idea of what everyone else was doing. At five he left the office and grabbed some takeout before he hopped on the train, and then he stopped at the liquor store around the corner from his apartment for a bottle of Jameson. After eating and downing a few shots, he crawled into bed and let sleep take him.

He didn’t bother unpacking.

Wednesday and Thursday went by in a blur. The only thing that pierced the fog he seemed to be in was an odd lack of information on their new customer. He asked Jake on Wednesday if they had sent over a corporate packet, like many customers did, but his boss replied that they hadn’t received anything yet.

“Isn’t that odd?” Koren asked him over lunch that day. Jake had treated, probably in an attempt to apologize. “You’d think they’d be wanting us to get acquainted with their corporate branding, as well as specs on at least the first property, so that we don’t have to waste time at the meeting.”

“Customers are weird, you know that,” Jake said while he cut into his steak. “They probably want to give us direction first. Remember that restaurant chain we did a few years ago? They wouldn’t let us get started on anything until we all went there for dinner. See what you can google.”

Jake didn’t ask about Koren’s vacation, and Koren didn’t volunteer any details. He ate his steak and drank his wine, which he decided was complete shit compared to what he’d been drinking for the past five weeks. But the Chambourcin reminded him of Gordon, and the way his mouth had tasted when they had kissed, and the memory only worsened his mood.

Thursday was spent in a mostly unsuccessful attempt to google Four Feathers Gaming Corporation. He found a static web page, which told him that Four Feathers was run by the Powatatomi tribe, and that they planned to offer ‘world-class gaming, dining, and resort hotel accommodations’ at four ‘soon to be disclosed’ locations. 

So the whole operation was new. That sort of explained the lack of press, especially if they needed tribal approval to get started. Koren hoped they could get a stab at updating their logo, because it looked like crap. At least it explained odd name of the first casino - the four feathers were Raven, Hawk, Eagle, and Heron. He assumed the other properties would go by those names, so he started researching the four birds and their lore in the Powatatomi tribe, making notes on colors and possible fonts.

After grabbing another takeout order on the way home, Koren stood in the crowded train as it bumped and rattled on the tracks, and he tried to tune out the incessant noise that surrounded him. Everyone was too loud, the train—and the city—smelled like an unwashed armpit, and the heat hung in the air like an invisible, oppressive cloud. By the time he got home, his dress shirt was soaked through. He showered and heated up his Pad Thai, and then he ate his dinner while he clicked his way through almost every channel on the cable box before he finally settled on watching the Cubs get spanked by the Phillies. The game couldn’t hold his attention though, and he found himself rooting for Philadelphia even though he normally liked the Cubs. Except when they were bums, like they were tonight.

Koren snorted at the Philly-ism; apparently five weeks in close proximity to the City of Brotherly Love had rubbed off on him more than he had expected.

He gave up on the game, and after some more channel-surfing he gave up on TV entirely and just went to bed.

Friday morning at eight forty-five, Koren sat in the conference room, waiting for the customer to arrive. He’d printed out the research he’d done the day before about the tribe and the importance of the feathers in their culture, and he had already some ideas percolating about player card design, card levels, and some other branding that would carry across all four properties. Jake came in at nine, followed by the client services rep who would be handling the account. Jake smiled as he went through the folder Koren had set in front of his chair.

“Good work,” he said, flipping through Koren’s pages of notes. “I knew you would come up with something. Tell me what you’ve got in mind, because I know you already have some ideas.”

Koren powered on his tablet and showed Jake some of the quick mockups he’d done, and then went over his initial thoughts on using each bird’s traditional color as an identifier for each property. 

“Excellent,” Jake said. “We’re showing them some initiative with this.” He glanced at his watch and frowned. “It’s almost ten. Beth,” he said, turning to the woman next to him, “Samuels said nine today, right?”

She looked at her notes. “That’s what I have from his phone call on Tuesday. He wanted today at nine, so they could give their marketing director an extra day to recover.” She rose from her chair. “I’ll check with Reception and see if they’ve seen them, and if not I’ll give Mr. Samuels a call.”

While they waited, Koren made some additional notes on his legal pad, and Jake spent the time on his phone, going through emails.

Beth came back into the conference room, shaking her head. “Reception hasn’t seen anyone, and I just left a voicemail for Mr. Samuels.”

Jake frowned. He thumbed through his phone log, and then his messages. “I don’t have anything here since he called on Tuesday morning. Maybe they’ve hit some traffic, and they’re in a bad spot for reception.”

Koren got up. “I’m going to go back to my office,” he said. “There’s no point in just sitting here. I’ll work on proofing Sue’s final comps for the Wowburger campaign. You guys can let me know when you’re ready for me to come back in.”

But the day came and went, and even after multiple emails, texts and voicemails they heard nothing from the customer. He left at five, ignoring Jake’s mumbled apologies, and headed straight to the pub around the corner.

“Jameson Black Barrel,” he said, sliding onto one of the far barstools, further away from the growing Happy Hour crowd. “A double.”

The week had been a complete cluster-fuck, Koren decided as he nursed his drink. He had thrown River’s Flow away, and had nothing to show for it. All because he let his boss threaten him into coming back. He decided that no matter what came of the Four Feathers mess, he was going to look for another job.

He was on his second double when his phone buzzed in his jacket pocket. 

It was Gordon.

“Hello,” he said, pressing the phone against his ear.

“Koren! Please don’t hang up!”

He closed his eyes at the sound of Gordon’s voice. “I’m not going to hang up.”

There was a sigh of relief on the other end of the line. “I’m really sorry to call you like this, but we need your help. Nik Janssen somehow found out that you left, and he called Henry and said when River’s Flow goes up for sale, he’s going to buy it.”

“He’s what?” Koren sat up straight and set his drink down with enough force that some of the whiskey sloshed over the edge of the glass.

“He said he’s going to buy it, Koren, and he said he’s going to fire us as soon as River’s Flow is his.”

“How the hell did he know I was back in Chicago?”

“We don’t know,” Gordon said. “Henry and I didn’t tell anyone, not even Morris. Joe didn’t tell anyone, either.”

“Fuck.” Koren gulped down his drink, and signaled for another.

“Koren, he said he’s coming here tomorrow, to ‘inspect’ everything. Could you… do you think you could come here for the weekend, and pretend like you’ve been here the whole time? Maybe we can fool that asshole into thinking he can’t get the place.”

Koren sighed. It would be difficult to go back there, knowing that it wasn’t going to be his, especially after the way he and Gordon had parted.

It was almost like Gordon had heard his jumbled thoughts.

“I’m sorry I said those things to you before you left,” Gordon said. “It’s just… I really wanted you to stay. And not just because of River’s Flow.”

“I know,” Koren said. 

“Can you help us, please? I know you don’t want to keep the place but I can’t bear letting Nik Janssen get his slimy hands on it.”

Koren agreed with him on that. He reached for his freshened drink and took a long swig, welcoming the whiskey’s burn.

“Koren?” Gordon’s voice was a choked whisper. “Please?”

Koren squeezed his eyes shut. “Okay,” he said. “I’ll be there tomorrow morning.”

“Thank you, thank you, thank you,” Gordon repeated the words breathlessly. “I can come pick you up at the airport.”

“You damn well better,” Koren said, “because there’s no way in hell I’m letting my aunt know I’m there.”


	20. Chapter 20

Koren managed to get a flight back to Philadelphia early the next morning. The cloudy sky that greeted him matched his mood, and as he stood under his airline’s sign at baggage claim he wondered if it would rain later.

He didn’t have to wait long until Gordon pulled up. 

“I hadn’t unpacked,” Koren said by way of explanation, when he tossed his suitcase into the back of Gordon’s Jeep.

“I’m glad,” Gordon said, “and I’m so glad you’re here. Thanks for coming, Koren.”

Gordon had even brought coffee, as well a bag of still-warm cinnamon sugar donuts.

“You went to Federal Donuts?” Koren asked as he dug into the bag. He groaned when he bit into the warm, fragrant donut. “Shit, I haven’t had these in years.” It didn’t escape his notice that the tiny donut shop in South Philly was nowhere near the airport. “This is serious bribery. Want one?”

“Fuck yeah.” Gordon flashed a grin at him and kept driving.

The drive to River’s Flow was a fairly short one, and Koren finished the last sip of his coffee just as Gordon pulled up to the barn.

Henry came running out as soon as they got out of the car. “Oh, thank goodness. Koren, we are so grateful.”

Koren waved a hand to forestall any further thanks. “No sign of him yet?”

“No,” Henry said. “I’m sure he’s going to wait until the tasting room is full of customers, so that we won’t want to make a scene.” His lip curled in disdain.

“You’re probably right.” Koren glanced at his watch, and saw that it was close to opening. “I guess there’s no way to keep people from coming.”

“It’s supposed to rain this afternoon, so the crowd will definitely be smaller.” Henry waved at Joe as he pulled up on his motorcycle.

“Never thought I’d be glad for rain on a Saturday,” Gordon said.

“Glad you decided to help them out, man,” Joe said, coming up to stand next to Henry. “I hope the thing at your work was worth leaving early.”

Koren said nothing. 

“I’m going to get changed,” Gordon said, “I’ll be back in a few minutes. Koren, you want me to drop your things off at the house?”

“Sure, thanks,” Koren said. After Gordon drove away, he turned to Henry. “Do you want me to work the room like normal?”

“I had an idea about that,” Joe said. “Gordon and I can probably handle whoever comes by today. You and Henry stay downstairs, with the barrels. When Janssen shows up, Henry, I’ll call you to come meet him. I’m thinking we should let him demand his tour, and then give him one. Part of the tour is the cellars, right?”

“I like where you’re going with this, Joe,” Henry said.

“Koren will be downstairs in the cellars because hey, you were teaching him shit about checking the barrels, like you showed me the other day. Mr. Asshole gets a nasty surprise, and if there’s any drama, it’s away from the customers.”

“That’s a pretty sneaky-ass plan,” Koren said. “I like it.”

They went inside, and after Henry got the cash register ready for the day, he and Koren headed downstairs. A few minutes later, they heard the jingle of main entrance’s bells, and Joe’s voice greeting a group of customers.

Koren looked around the room, admiring the way light from the main fixture danced on the barrels that surrounded them. “I forgot how chilly it is down here,” he said, rubbing his mostly bare arms.

Henry pointed toward the storerooms. “I keep a few sweatshirts down here, feel free to grab one.” He flicked on a second bank of lights, which illuminated a set of track lighting that shone on the fronts of the barrels. “I told Joe last night that I was going to need to check the barrels this weekend… I wonder if that’s what gave him the idea. Have a seat.”

Koren shrugged on one of the deep violet hoodies that was embroidered with the winery’s logo, and then he sat down at the room’s large banquet table.

Henry went behind the small counter in the corner of the room, and he retrieved a set of notebooks and two wineglasses. He opened up the notebooks and spread them out on the table. “I might as well do my checks. Here, we’ll start out with the Cabernet Franc, you can see how different it tastes when it’s still in the barrel.” Henry opened a small, steel spigot at the front of one of the barrels and filled the glasses with a few splashes of wine.

Koren tasted the wine and watched while Henry examined his glass, tasted, and made notes. It _was_ very different from what he’d been drinking over the past month. This wine tasted raw and wild, its flavors more brash than he was used to, but he could still taste hints of what it was going to be.

“I’m sorry that your employer made it impossible for you to stay,” Henry said, as he finished his notes. “I hope they appreciated your loyalty.”

Koren huffed as he set the glass down. “Fat lot of good it did me. The customer rescheduled to yesterday morning, and then they never showed up.”

“No!” Henry’s mouth dropped open. “They didn’t show up for a meeting they had been so adamant about?”

“Completely AWOL,” Koren said. “The client services rep spent all day yesterday trying to reach them.”

“Koren, I’m so sorry.”

Koren shrugged. Not much he could do about it. He glanced further down the wall of barrels. “Those look different from the rest,” he said, nodding at the last stack.

“Good eye,” Henry said, taking his cue to change the subject. “Those are bourbon barrels.”

“You’re making bourbon?” Koren sat up a little straighter in the chair.

“Better,” Henry said. “I’ve got Cabernet Franc in those bourbon barrels. They’ve got another six months to go, and then we’ll have what I hope will be a spectacular reserve wine.” He smiled at Koren. “I think you deserve a taste of that one.”

Koren followed him over to the barrels, glass in hand. “Where’d you get the barrels?”

“There are a few good distilleries right in Philadelphia,” Henry said. He partially filled the two glasses, adding a little more to Koren’s. He started when his phone rang, and the wine sloshed in his glass. He quickly handed Koren his glass and pulled out his phone. “Oh dear,” he said.

“Joe?” Koren asked.

Henry nodded and accepted the call. “Hello, Joe. Ah, Mr. Janssen is here? And with a friend? Please tell him I’ll be right up.” He ended the call and looked at Koren. “It’s showtime.”

“Good luck,” Koren said, and he watched Henry head up the stairs.

He sat back down, and took a sip of the wine. Holy fuck, it was good. It was still a little rough around the edges, but along with the dry, peppery taste of the Cab, he tasted the smoke and fire of the bourbon. He took another sip and almost felt like he needed a cigarette. He tried listening to whatever was going on upstairs, but couldn’t make anything out. Henry would bring him down here sooner or later, so Koren pulled Henry’s notebooks over and spun them around so he had something to read while he waited.

Henry’s notes were meticulous, written in a painfully perfect script. Koren read his impressions on a particular barrel, results on different tests, suggestions for various adjustments, and other comments. He found it interesting when Henry would write further up about Gordon’s assessment of the wine’s progress, only to have it prove correct later on. 

It seemed that Gordon was a natural with wine.

The creak of the wood door at the top of the stairs gave him a warning that company was coming. Koren took another sip of the wine.

“Down here are our cellars,” Henry said. “We store our barrel-aged wines in the main room, and we also host private events down here as well.”

Koren kept his gaze on the notebooks, trying to act like he didn’t care who was coming down the stairs.

“Ooh, this is a nice room, Nikky. We could have parties here.”

“What the hell are you doing here?”

Koren looked up to see Nik Janssen at the bottom of the steps. Standing next to him was a man who looked a year or two younger than Koren. He had lanky blond hair, slightly effeminate features, and an unfortunate port wine birthmark that covered the upper right side of his face. 

Apparently Nik still had a thing for younger, pretty blonds.

He leaned back in his chair. “I live here,” he said. “I thought you found that out a few weeks ago.”

Janssen took a few steps forward. “You don’t live here any more. You left.”

“I don’t know what kind of crack you’re smoking, Nik, but I think you can see that I’m here.”

The blond hugged Janssen’s arm. “He’s lying, Nikky. I know he went back to Chicago. I—”

“That’s enough, Cameron,” Janssen said, and he took a few steps closer to the table. 

Henry went over to stand by Koren’s chair.

Janssen smirked, although the amusement didn’t reach his eyes. “So what, you’re going to keep the old place? Ditch the day job and paint pretty pictures while you stomp the grapes? You aren’t a winemaker—I doubt you could tell any of the grapes apart, much less keep the vineyard successful. I really can’t see that working out for you.”

Nik’s dismissive tone and disparaging words set Koren’s teeth on edge. “You love to tell me what you think I can’t do, don’t you, Nik? When I was younger, you managed to convince me that I couldn’t make a living as a painter, telling me that Corbin only encouraged me because he was an eccentric old man. I was stupid, and I let you make me doubt myself.”

“He _was_ an eccentric old man,” Nik replied, “and you were a stupid brat who believed him when he said you had talent. You should be thanking me; you wouldn’t be a high and mighty Art Director if you hadn’t taken my advice.” He turned to Cameron. “Maybe I should charge him a career recruiter fee.”

_Art Director? How did he know—_

Cameron giggled. “Send Three Aspects Advertising the bill, Nikky,” he said, “and get a percentage of his salary, just like the headhunters do.”

Koren’s eyes widened at hearing his company’s name, and he rose from his chair. “How do you know I work for Three Aspects? And how do you know what I do there?”

Nick smiled, showing all his teeth. “The Internet’s a beautiful thing, babe. I googled you after I learned of Corbin’s foolishness in giving you this place. Then, after _your_ foolishness in refusing to give me Corbin’s 'Moonlight' photos, I decided some revenge was in order.” He turned to Cameron. “You still have one of the business cards we made up, don’t you?”

“I do! I kept it, because I did a good job on it.” Cameron pulled out his wallet and removed a card, which he gave it to Nik. “Didn’t I?”

“Yes, you did a wonderful job, baby,” Nik replied. He held out the card to Koren.

Koren glanced at it, and his eyes widened when he saw the same shitty-looking logo he’d seen earlier in the week. His eyes automatically focused on the center line, even though he knew what he would read:

_Four Feathers Gaming Corporation_  
_Owned and Operated by the Powatatomi Tribe of Michigan_  
_Cameron Samuels, CEO_

He looked up to see Nik’s smug, shark-like smile. “You tricked me, you bastard,” Koren said, and he lunged toward Nik, only to be stopped by Henry. 

“Koren, don’t,” Henry said, and he gripped Koren’s arms tightly.

“Now, now,” Nik said, “I didn’t make you go back to Chicago—and I know you went. Cameron asked for your flight receipt, so that ‘Four Feathers’ could pay for it. It’s also not my fault that your boss won’t say no to a customer’s outrageous demands.”

Cameron giggled again, and the inane sound made Koren want to punch him in the face.

“Get out,” Koren said, as he gripped the edge of the table, “both of you. I don’t want you on my property.” He jabbed a finger at the stairs.

“But _is_ it your property?” Nick asked. “Weren’t you were supposed to stay here for six weeks? Painting pretty little pictures just like Corbin wanted? Oh, but you left, didn’t you. I guess that means you won’t get the place after all.” He strode toward the stairs, Cameron following in his wake. He turned and faced Koren. “I’ll just wait for Morris to put it up for sale,” he said, “and next time, you won’t know it’s me until it’s definitely too late. You should have taken me up on that offer I made all those years ago, _Korey.”_ A few moments later, they heard the front door slam shut.

Koren and Henry both took deep breaths and exhaled, and then they went upstairs.

“Jesus, that was some nasty piece of work,” Joe said, waving them over. Gordon stood next to him, setting four glasses on the counter. 

“Joe, your idea worked perfectly,” Henry said. 

Koren looked around, and saw that everyone in the tasting room was enjoying their wine, and the room was filled with lively chatter, as if nothing had happened. “It did,” he said. “Henry, give that man a raise.”

Joe grinned and reached for an open bottle. “We definitely need some wine.”

Koren sighed as he took a seat at the counter. “I should have guessed he was behind that weird customer request. I should have known that he would try some sneaky-ass shit like this.”

Gordon stared at him. “Nik Janssen was the customer who made you go back?”

“Yeah.” Koren took a gulp from the wineglass that Joe slid in front of him.

“Koren, how could you have known?” Henry asked. “And how could you not return to work when your employer demanded it? You did what you had to do.” He looked around the tasting room. “But oh, I can’t bear the thought of him owning all this.”

“Wait a minute,” Gordon said, and the other three men turned to look at him.

“What is it, Gordon?” Henry asked.

“Was it in the rules that Koren had to stay here the whole time?” Gordon asked.

“We’d have to ask Morris,” Henry said, “but you may be right—I don’t recall that a _continuous stay_ was stipulated.” His expression brightened. “Koren, you might still be able to keep River’s Flow!”

Gordon ran off and disappeared into the back office, returning moments later with a wall calendar. “You came here on a Monday, right?” He flipped the page to the previous month, and poked his finger at a day that had been circled with a red marker. “Here. Henry marked it down after you called him.”

Henry peered at the calendar. “Hmm. If that’s when Koren arrived, then the sixth week ends tomorrow night.” He glanced up at Koren. “You’ll be here when the stipulation ends.”

Koren shook his head. “It wasn’t just living here—I had to complete one painting a week for the six weeks. There’s still one painting left to do—on the biggest canvas. That bastard made sure I couldn’t finish the last painting.”

Gordon frowned at him. “You have all day tomorrow, and Morris wouldn’t be coming over till Monday. You’re not going to give up, are you?”

“Please try, Koren,” Henry said.

“Yeah, ‘cause it looks like everyone here will lose their jobs if that asshole gets his hands on this place,” Joe set the empty bottle on the counter. “I ain’t been here long, but I like it, and I’d like to stay.”

Koren considered the three men in front of him. He hardly knew any of them, really, but in six short weeks they’d become better friends to him than anyone he knew in Chicago. He’d come to appreciate Henry’s attention to detail, and his sly sense of humor. Joe wasn’t exactly friend material, but Koren had found him to be loyal and hard-working. And Gordon…

He didn’t want to think too much about how he felt about Gordon.

“Koren?” Gordon stood next to him, and put a hand on his arm. “You told me this was your favorite place when you were younger.” He pointed up at the photograph that Corbin had taken of Koren painting in the field. “You see that photo? Corbin loved telling people about it, about _you,_ how you came here on a school trip and you were all cranky and snotty, but when you started painting all that went away, and you looked so peaceful that he wanted you to keep coming back. He had watched you fall in love with painting, he’d say, and you had also fallen in love with the land. He told me and Henry that by your second summer he knew he wanted you to have this place when he died.”

Koren swallowed past a suddenly painful lump in his throat. The old man had made his decision that long ago?

“Don’t let Nik Janssen take this all away from you,” Gordon said. “Fight for it. Fight for us.”

Koren looked over and met Gordon’s honey-brown gaze, and he knew Gordon was talking about more than the winery, and their jobs.

“All right,” he said, “I’ll do it. It’s probably going to look like complete shit, but I’ll do it.”

Joe cheered while Henry applauded, and Gordon’s smile could have lit up a small town.

“You know, Koren,” Henry said, “I don’t think the will says anything about _good_ paintings. There just has to be six of them.”


	21. Chapter 21

‘Why did the old man leave the biggest canvas for last?” Koren grumbled as he followed Gordon out into the fields. He hitched the easel’s straps into a more comfortable position, and switched the large canvas to his other hand.

“Well, I’m sure he didn’t figure on his friend being an asshole,” Gordon said, stopping to remove a few stray leaves. “We’ll find something. Maybe the western meadow?”

“Maybe,” Koren said. 

“Do you think he and Corbin had a friends-with-benefits thing going on?” Gordon asked. “Maybe he thought since he had a thing on the side with Corbin that it should count for him inheriting more. Guess he wasn’t happy with ‘just’ getting the studio in Wilmington.” Gordon’s fingers flicked up to do air quotes.

“God, I hope not. I’d like to think that Corbin had more taste than that.” Although, Koren thought, Corbin seemed to have enjoyed a friend-with-benefits relationship with almost all of his friends, and he knew that Corbin and Morris had been on-and-off lovers over the years.

They switched rows and walked for a bit more, and he almost walked straight into Gordon when the young man stopped to inspect another group of laden vines.

“I swear to God you need brake lights,” Koren complained. “Are you _sniffing_ the grapes?”

Gordon looked up from the bunch of grapes he was checking. “We’re really close to harvest on a couple of these varietals—I need to check them almost every day. And yeah, I’m smelling them. Gonna taste them, too.” He pulled off two grapes and popped one in his mouth, and he held the other to Koren’s lips.

Without thinking, Koren let Gordon push the fruit into his mouth, and there was a flicker of warmth in his groin at the momentary feel of Gordon’s fingers against his lips. Sweetness from the grape exploded across his tongue. “Wow,” he said, after he finished swallowing it.

“I know, right?” Gordon was beaming like a proud parent. “This is the Cabernet Franc, and it’s _almost_ ready.” He took a heavy fruit-filled cluster in both hands and gently lifted it away from the vine. “Look at how the grapes are changing colors—there’s more reddish color in some of these, not just the really dark blue-purple. Smell them.” He held the bunch out towards Koren.

Koren felt time slow down around him as he gazed at Gordon; grapes spilling over Gordon’s cupped, outstretched hands, the excitement in Gordon’s expression and the way the mid-morning light made strands of his hair shimmer, and the smudge of red grape juice lingering on full, smiling lips.

“Don’t move,” he ordered, and his hands flew up, thumbs touching, to create a viewfinder, like Corbin had taught him all those years ago, He cocked his head and regarded Gordon through the opening, and then he moved his thumbs closer, narrowing his focus.

Definitely portrait orientation. 

He pulled out his phone and snapped a quick picture of his increasingly confused subject. “Take your shirt off,” he said.

“Umm, okay.” Gordon released the grapes and pulled his t-shirt over his head. “Not that I mind stripping for you, but why?”

“I'm going to paint you,” Koren replied. “I want you to wear a wreath of grape leaves—go pick ones, in some different sizes, that won’t harm anything.” While Gordon gathered the floppy leaves, Koren made quick work of setting up the easel. The canvas _just_ fit; the sneaky old bastard must have known the easel’s limits when he dictated the sizes. This one was going to take awhile, he realized, so he took the folding stool out of his pack and set it up. By the time he’d gotten the turps bucket ready and his brushes out and clipped to the side of the easel, Gordon had returned with his bounty.

Koren pulled open one of the easel’s drawers and fished out some twistie ties, and he quickly fashioned a wreath of leaves. Ignoring Gordon’s protests he sliced off a few tiny grape bunches with his knife and wired them in with the leaves. Then he scanned the row for the best spot.

“Stand there,” he said, pointing. After Gordon complied he moved him here and there until the light was right, and would hold the longest. He mussed Gordon’s hair and set the wreath on his head.

“I’m gonna be your model?” Gordon asked, his cheeks flushed from his exertions—and probably a little embarrassment.

“You are Bacchus,” Koren said, as he adjusted the leaves the way he wanted them. “Dionysus. God of the grape harvest, wine making, and wine. Put out your hands like you did a few minutes ago.” He poked around in the neighboring vines until he found a few clusters that he liked, and then he cut them and arranged the bunches to spill over Gordon’s hands. He added more ties, because he knew Gordon would need to take rests from the pose, and he wanted to waste as little time as possible re-setting him.

“This is so cool,” Gordon said, and then he yelped in surprise when Koren tugged his cargo shorts down to hang low on his hips, exposing his navel and hipbones, as well as part of the ‘v’ of corded muscle that led down to his groin. His breathing quickened when Koren moved to fasten a set of leaves to the front of his pants.

“I, um, can lose the pants,” he said. “If you want.”

Koren looked up at him. “Yeah?”

“Yeah. It’d be more authentic, right?”

While Gordon carefully put the grapes down and shimmied out of his pants, kicking them to the other side of the row, Koren re-worked the second set of leaves into a girdle. He bit his lip as he set them loosely around Gordon’s now naked hips, moving it so that a few of the larger leaves allowed him a vestige of modesty.

Fuck, he was beautiful. Koren had drawn and painted nudes before, in various classes, but he’d never painted anyone he’d been this attracted to. And Gordon felt the same way, judging from the half-hard dick now hidden under the leaves.

“Here, have some water,” Koren said, handing Gordon one of his steel water bottles. “I’ll need you to stand as still as you can. When you start to feel tired, tell me—I mean it,” he cut off Gordon’s protest. “We’re probably going to be here for a few hours, and you can’t hold those grapes up all that time. Tell me when the grapes start feeling heavy, and then you’ll take a break. Okay?”

“Okay.”

Koren took the bottle back, handed Gordon the grapes, and moved his arms until he was in just the right position.

He sat back and checked everything over, and then he compared Gordon’s pose to the picture he’d taken earlier. “Perfect,” he said, and snapped another picture. “Here we go.”

Sketching went quickly, and as his brush moved with smooth, sure strokes across the canvas, Gordon’s likeness quickly emerged before him. He blocked in the sky and surrounding vines, just enough to get the shapes, light and shadow. He could always refine them later. Gordon was strong, from years of work in the fields, but Koren knew posing was unexpectedly grueling work, especially a pose like this. 

He stumbled a little in mixing the perfect shade to convey that glorious expanse of sun-kissed skin, but he soon got the color right and continued on, noting that Gordon must work shirtless a lot, because there was no ‘farmer’s tan’ marring his arms, and years of manual labor had honed Gordon’s body into a an anatomy student’s wet dream. 

After a half hour, Gordon finally confessed to fatigue, and while he rested Koren returned to the vines and sky, marveling at how quickly they took their final appearance. 

“I’m ready,” Gordon said, and Koren quickly set him back into the pose.

He concentrated on the grapes in Gordon’s hands, berating himself for the challenging perspective of the pose. But he was pleased to see that the pose held true in the painting, and he moved on to paint a six-pack—no, eight-pack—of abdominal muscles, the sharp angles of those tantalizing hips, and then showing a hint of bare thighs below the girdle of leaves, just at the canvas’ edge.

Angles and shapes, he told himself, angles and shapes, as he worked on the group of leaves that barely covered Gordon’s sex.

He felt the heat of Gordon’s gaze on him.

This time he called the break, passing over the water and taking long, deep draughts from the second bottle he’d stowed away.

“We almost done?” Gordon asked. “Not that I’m tired or anything,” he waved his hands, “I’m just curious. I’ve never posed for a painting before.”

“Almost,” Koren said. “It’s going really well.”

“Can I see?” Gordon started to get up, but Koren stopped him.

“Not yet. Not until I’m done.”

“Okay,” Gordon said. “You were right, this is harder that you’d think. I keep wanting to move.”

Koren put some finishing touches on the torso and hands while he gave Gordon more time to rest.

When Gordon was ready, Koren got him back into position, moving him the slightest bit so that the sun would light Gordon’s face.

“Look at me,” he said as he adjusted the easel to match the new angle. “You’re offering these grapes to me, just like you did earlier.” He snagged a grape from a grape from a nearby vine and split it open, and Gordon made a small choked noise when Koren rubbed some of the juice on his lips. 

Koren just about lost himself while painting that face. He smoothed his brush over cheeks that still held a hint of childish roundness, but yielded to adulthood with an angled jaw. A snub nose—his aunt would have called it a button nose and pinched it mercilessly—added to the air of youth, as did the smattering of freckles that danced across the bridge of his nose.

Gordon’s cheeks were flushed now, and the gaze that held his now had a luminous, wanton quality. Koren knew if he looked down he’d see that Gordon’s dick was hard. He had an erection of his own, swelling against the snug fabric of his jeans.

This wasn’t Gordon, he told himself, as he stared at plump, juice-stained lips. This was the demi-god himself, gifting him the fruits of the harvest, offering Koren the pleasures of his flesh in exchange for Koren’s worship in wine and madness. 

He tore his gaze away from the promise in those lips, and concentrated with all his might on capturing the way the sunlight kissed his hair, and the colorful glow of the almost-ripe grapes reflected on his neck and jaw. A few flicks of the brush finished the eyebrows, a few more strokes finished the cheeks, nose, and that tempting mouth. He changed brushes, and with a few small daubs of white the eyes came alive, beckoning him to lose himself in their depths. 

Koren put the brush down and stared at the painting.

“Koren?” Gordon asked, “is there something wrong with it? Did I mess something up?”

“No,” Koren replied softly. It was far and away the best work he’d ever done.

“It’s done? Can I see now?”

“Yes, you can see. Just don’t touch it.”

Gordon set the grapes down and moved to stand at Koren’s side. Then he, too, stared at the painting. “Wow,” he said. “Did I really look like that? It looks so good!”

“Yes,” Koren said, “It’s perfect.” He pressed his hand against the small of Gordon’s back, pulling him close. “You’re perfect.” He swept his thumb along the angle of Gordon’s jaw, before cupping the back of Gordon’s neck to bring their mouths together.

Gordon’s lips eagerly parted beneath his, and as they kissed his hands wandered beneath the hem of Koren’s t-shirt, gliding along Koren’s waist, bringing their bodies closer. 

Koren’s hand dipped below the leaves at Gordon’s hips to cup the rounded swell of Gordon’s ass, and as Gordon moaned into his mouth he felt the insistent nudge of an erection pressing against his hip. Then Gordon’s hand slid over the front of his jeans, lingering and squeezing the hardness it found there, and Koren gave himself over to the desire that had been building all morning.

They tumbled to the ground, and Gordon tugged at Koren’s shirt, lifting it up and off, and then Koren pushed him down against the soft, cool grass that grew between the rows of vines, and took Gordon’s mouth in a hungry kiss.

“Ow,” Gordon said in between kisses, “The leaves are scratching me.”

“Easy fix,” Koren murmured against his lips, and he leaned back so Gordon could yank the wired greenery off his hips. For a moment he paused, taking in the sight of the naked young demigod lying beneath him, the leafy crown askew on his head, and then Gordon pulled him back down for more kisses.

While he nipped along Gordon’s jaw, Koren felt Gordon’s fingers working at the waistband of his jeans, fumbling with the button and then tugging at the zipper. 

“Careful with that,” Koren growled against Gordon’s neck.

Gordon laughed, a husky sound that went straight to Koren’s groin. “Commando, huh?” He pushed the denim down past Koren’s hips, and then his hand slipped between their bodies, tugging, stroking, encircling their erections as they rocked together. Koren kissed him again, reveling in the delicious friction, a groan escaping his lips each time Gordon’s thumb flicked over sensitive flesh. 

He heard Gordon’s gasping moans, and then he watched Gordon’s face as his climax took him, joining him seconds later as his own orgasm swept over him. Their mouth met once more as their frenzied movements slowed, then stopped. Koren pressed his face against Gordon’s neck, feeling Gordon’s pulse hammer against the bridge of his nose while he breathed in the scent of of sweat and sex, mingled with earth, ripening grapes, and sweet summer grass.

Gordon’s free hand trailed along Koren’s back, moving further down to slip beneath the rumpled waistband of Koren’s jeans and rest possessively on the curve of Koren’s bare ass.

“Koren.” Gordon’s voice was low and breathless against his throat. “Will you stay?”

Koren pulled back to look at him. The words _with me?_ were not spoken aloud, but they were there on Gordon’s kiss-swollen lips, and there in his luminous, honey-brown gaze.

“I’ll stay,” Koren said, and then he bent his head to taste the god’s intoxicating kisses once more.

 


	22. Chapter 22

“What an amazing painting, Koren,” Henry said as he stood in front of the easel Koren had set up in the tasting room. “Quite possibly your best one yet. But… I don’t think it’s going to be, er…. suitable to display in the tasting room.”

Koren snorted, and Joe’s hearty laughter rang through the empty room, while Gordon’s face went a few shades redder than it already was. 

“Why are you all embarrassed, kiddo?” Joe asked. “It’s not like you’re totally naked in the painting. Koren painted over your junk.” He leaned over and continued in a loud whisper, “Dude, you can tell me, were you really naked?”

Gordon ignored him and paid an extraordinary amount of attention to his ‘everything’ bagel.

The four men sat at one of the tables near the door. Joe had brought bagels and coffee, so while they waited for Morris to arrive they ate breakfast, and Henry and Joe examined Koren’s sixth and final painting.

“I don’t know, Henry, maybe it would be good to have the painting in here,” Joe said. “Gordo there looks like he’s promising a pretty good time with those grapes. All the ladies will want to buy bottles of that sexy Merlot.”

“Those are Cabernet Franc grapes,” Henry said. “We don’t even grow Merlot. Have I taught you nothing?”

“Yeah, you taught me a thing or two,” Joe said, winking at Henry, who turned almost as red as Gordon.

“B-be that as it may,” Henry said, “I do feel that it’s not quite appropriate for the tasting room.” He looked around at the half-empty walls. “You’re going to need to get busy, Koren—almost all of your paintings sold, and we need some new art to put up. Can I assume that we’re going ahead with changing the labels?”

Koren nodded. “Yeah, I only have a couple more to do.” 

“Will you look for a new position around here, do you think?” Henry asked. “I’m sure there are plenty of marketing agencies in the area.” He gestured at the empty spaces on the walls. “Although, I don’t know that you’ll need to.”

Henry had a point—the check he had given Koren for his percentage of the sales had been gratifyingly large. His income from selling paintings might never match the salary he’d had in Chicago, but Koren realized that it didn’t need to, and that had been Corbin’s gift to him. 

He swallowed hard past a sudden lump in his throat.

The sound of crunching gravel made everyone look toward the front entrance.

“That must be Morris,” Henry said, rising from his chair. “How about we check on the Riesling and the Cab Franc, Gordon? If Koren’s colors are accurate in that painting, we might need to start picking the Cab Franc soon. You come too, Joe, I want you to be part of the process so you can tell customers about it.”

Chairs scraped on the hardwood floor as Gordon and Joe joined him, and the three men went outside, Gordon glancing back to smile at Koren before he left. 

Koren listened to them greet Morris, and heard Dragon’s happy yips and whines, punctuated by the old man repeatedly telling Dragon to sit. 

“So, young man, I hope you have a finished painting to show me,” Morris called from the entrance over the tinkling chime of the bells hung at the top of the door, “especially after the number our friend Nick tried to pull on you.” He walked into the room and dumped his briefcase onto the table next to where they sat. “Yes, I know all about it, thanks to Henry. And please tell me there’s coffee left in that carton.”

Koren poured him a cup, and after Morris poked through the bag for a pumpernickel bagel, the old man ambled over to the easel to study the painting. He stood there for a few moments, silent, and then he waved Koren over. 

“Looks like you and Gordon are getting along well,” Morris said, laughing as he shoved an elbow into Koren’s ribs. “Seriously, though, Koren, this is good work. The painting is loose and wild, and I bet you lost track of time while doing it.”

Koren nodded.

“It reminds me of how you painted when you spent your summers here, and that makes me happy because it means that Corbin’s idiotic plan actually worked.”

“Plan?” Koren asked.

“You know he wanted you to remain a painter.”

“Yeah,” Koren said, remembering Corbin’s disappointment when he’d changed majors at school. “I just didn’t think I could make a living at it.”

“ _He_ told you that, didn’t he?” Morris scowled, his bushy eyebrows drawing into a single bar.

“Nik? Yeah. He told me a lot of things, and none of them good.”

Morris grunted. “That explains a lot. It’s a shame you listened to him, instead of Corbin—or me, for that matter.” He poured himself some more coffee, and then sat down heavily in the nearest chair. “I can tell you this now… Corbin made his decision to leave you River’s Flow a long time ago. Can you guess when?”

Koren shook his head.

“Do you remember the second summer you stayed here, the weekend when we joked about a winery with five rows of grapevines, and you painted a watercolor of me and Corbin sitting by the river?” 

“Of course I do,” Koren replied. “The painting is still hanging in my old room. That was when he started calling you ‘Toad’ instead of ‘Momo.’”

Morris laughed, and then he sipped at his coffee. “You became family that day. Later that night, Corbin told me he was going to make sure that River’s Flow would go to you, because he wanted this place to go to someone who loved it as much as he did. He loved you like a son.”

Koren stared at him. Corbin had made his decision that first summer? 

Morris squarely met his gaze. “Do you want to keep this place, Koren, and love it like he did?”

Koren nodded, unable to speak.

“Then it’s yours. You have fulfilled Corbin’s wishes, and I think he would be very pleased with your work.”

“But what about the six week requirement?” Koren asked, finally finding his voice. “I left.”

“That’s the nice thing about being executor,” Morris said, “I can decide to overlook that, especially since you were tricked. And even if you hadn’t, Koren, you came back, and you did what Corbin wanted you to do; you lived here, you painted, and you fell back in love with the place. So I am pleased to say that you are now the owner of River’s Flow—the land, the vineyard, and the winery.” He tugged the briefcase toward him and undid the latches. “Let’s get the paperwork started.”

“I’m sure the others will be glad it won’t be getting sold,” Koren said as pulled up a chair next to Morris.

Morris glanced at him as he removed a few folders from the briefcase, along with his notary seal. “It was never in danger of being sold,” he said. “Everyone assumed it would be, and I just let you all continue thinking that way. Corbin’s not the only one who can scheme around here.”

“What?” Koren frowned at him. “What would have happened, then, if I hadn’t wanted the inheritance? Or if I hadn’t met the requirements of the will?”

“I would have been given ownership of the property,” Morris replied, “and young Gordon would have inherited the winery. If you had tried to sell it, I would have bought it myself.”

Koren blinked at the revelation. “Did—does—Gordon know?”

Morris shook his head.

Koren looked at the thick envelopes that Morris had set on the table, full of papers that would transfer ownership of everything to his name. He thought of how tirelessly Gordon worked with the vines, how much he loved doing it, and how passionate he was about the land and the wine they produced. “Can we change it to have Gordon as half owner of the winery?”

Morris smiled at him. “That’s my boy,” he said. “I think Corbin would have approved of that. And yes, we can make it happen—I’ll just have to add his name to the business and the business accounts.”

“Good,” Koren said, “Let’s do it.”

They spent the next half hour passing papers back and forth, and Koren signed and initialed while Morris stamped and witnessed. When they were done Morris returned everything but one envelope to his briefcase.

“This has your copies,” Morris said, tapping the fat packet, “although you’ll receive an official copy of the deed once it’s filed. I need to print out a new set of business transfer papers that include Gordon’s information. You two can come by the gallery in the next day or two to get everything signed.” He rose to his feet, and Koren got up too.

“Thank you, Mo,” Koren said, holding our his hand, “for everything.”

Morris gripped his hand and pulled him into a bone-crushing hug. “Corbin wasn’t the only one who thinks of you as a son,” he said, kissing Koren’s temple with a loud _smack_. “Now that you’re back where you belong I fully expect to visit on the occasional weekend.” 

“A-absolutely,” Koren said, while trying to breathe.

Morris thumped Koren on the back and released him, and then he retrieved his briefcase and headed toward the door. “Try to come by tomorrow,” he said, “early-ish. We can grab breakfast at the diner—but I’m not paying for Gordon, that boy will eat you into bankruptcy.” He waved farewell and left.

Koren listened to the roar of Morris’ vintage Thunderbird starting while he stared at the manila envelope on the table. 

River’s Flow was his. His _home._

He looked up when he heard the jangle of the bells, and Gordon came into the room. 

“I saw Morris pull away,” Gordon said. “How’d it go?”

Koren held up the packet. “These are my copies,” he said, “but Mo is going to file the deed and the other paperwork for me inheriting the property. He’s also going to help get all the business stuff for the winery changed over to our names.” He set the envelope on the table.

“Congratulations!” Gordon said. “I bet Corbin’s really happy, wherever he is.” He paused, and then looked at Koren, confusion clear on his handsome features. “Wait. Our?”

“Our,” Koren said, “as in you and me.”

Gordon gaped at him. “Me? But how?”

“Mo told me that you would have inherited the winery if I had refused it,” Koren said, meeting Gordon’s shocked gaze with his own, “and I decided that you should share it with me.”

“I…I don’t know what to say,” Gordon stammered. 

Koren took the handful of steps needed to close the distance between them, and he slipped his arms around Gordon’s waist, pulling him close. “You were amazing yesterday,” he said, enjoying Gordon’s quick intake of breath and the way he leaned into Koren’s embrace. “That painting exists because of you. I have this place, because of you.”

“Because you got the idea when I was trying to show you the grapes?”

“Partly,” Koren said, “but also because you convinced me to keep going, to try and finish.” He pressed his mouth to the corner of Gordon’s mouth. “Thank you for that. And for calling me to come back.” 

Gordon’s arms slid up to twine around Koren’s neck. “I didn’t want you to give up,” he said, tilting his head back to meet Koren’s gaze, “on River’s Flow, or… us. Corbin wanted you to stay here, and so do I.” He glanced over at the painting. “You know, though, as awesome as your painting is, I don’t think Henry will let you hang it in here. Will you put it in a gallery, you think? That would be cool. And weird. But mostly cool.”

“No gallery. It’s going in my room,” Koren said, deciding at that moment that the painting would help him claim the master bedroom as his own.

Gordon looked up at him with an impish grin. “So I’ll be in your bedroom every night?”

Koren brushed his thumb over Gordon’s lower lip. “Yes, you and the painting. If you want.”

It took a second or two for the invitation to register, and then Gordon smiled. “I want,” he said, and he pulled Koren’s head down so their mouths could meet. “I wish we could go there now,” he whispered in between kisses.

Koren was about to ask why they couldn’t when he heard Dragon barking and scratching at the door. Koren and Gordon pulled apart just as Henry opened the door.

“Gordon! Koren! The Riesling is ready!” Henry beckoned to them as Dragon danced around his feet. “With the four of us, we should be able to get it all picked today. I’ll get the cutters, Gordon, can you bring the bins? Joe and I will meet you at the vines!”

Gordon turned to Koren and held out his hand. “Time for harvest,” he said, beaming. “Let’s go pick some grapes.”

Koren took his outstretched hand and followed him, out into the sun-kissed fields of his vineyard.


End file.
